


Somewhere to Begin

by bluebells



Series: Somewhere to Begin [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Amnesia, Angelcest, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 95,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam Milligan was just another casualty of the engine of the apocalypse. After Michael breaks them out of the Cage, Adam is accidentally thrown into the future where peace has finally settled by strange circumstances. With his memories sealed to protect his sanity, Adam learns the censored, Apocalypse-free version of the life he's forged with a suite of archangels, a crabby adopted Uncle, and brothers he never knew he had, but this has all happened before and will happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover Art by the amazing [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/208129.html).
> 
>  

_It ends with a bargain, grace weaving through the shreds of his soul._

_Adam tips his head back and exhales._

_“Close your eyes and ears to everything but me,” Michael breathes into him._

_And then they’re flying._

-*-

It starts with a jailbreak.

-*-

Adam wakes up to a dark, unfamiliar room and blinks through the fading headache behind his eyes.

By the light of street lamps or the moon between the curtains, he can see a tall chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. There’s a door beside it and another at his side of the bed, furthest from the windows. A half-open laptop sits on the long desk under the window, long-sleeved shirts thrown over the chair’s back. A single, large canvas of something glittering and frozen mid-swirl hangs in a frame above the bureau.

Adam doesn’t recognize any of it.

He knocks over a plastic bottle of water reaching for the lamp he can see on his nightstand; something small clatters to the floor and, when he’s fumbling for the lamp’s switch, the room bursts into light from the other side of the bed.

Adam almost has a heart attack, twisting in the sheets.

There’s a pale, lean-muscled guy propped up on his elbows, squinting at Adam with a tired frown, and how the hell had Adam seen the glitter in the canvas, but missed the fact that there was a stranger in his bed?

“Are you all right?” the man asks, quietly, head tilting to the side.

Adam stares from the guy’s naked chest to his unfamiliar face of dark hair, light brown eyes, and there’s a startling moment of vertigo when he realises that, in addition to the lack of recognition, he has no idea how he got here, or where here is.

He swallows when the stranger’s hand slides across the bed and he pulls his own hand away.

“Who the hell are you?” Adam blurts, swallowing to work some moisture down his throat.

The guy shakes his head like he doesn’t understand the simple question.

“Adam?”

He’s handsome, older, but there’s something about him that makes Adam’s palms sweat, his throat tightens, and it’s not in a good way. Adam watches the confusion, then sharp suspicion flicker across the man’s face before he sits up and leans across the bed even as Adam leans away.

“What the --?” Adam smacks away the hand reaching for his face, but when his wrist knocks the guy’s palm, something else curls around his shoulders, something unseen that brushes like a careful trail of knuckles through his clothes, skin and bones. Its resonant heat reaches right through for his heart, _his soul_ , and Adam seizes.

The recognition is instant, this sensation of scalding water over an open wound.

It’s Michael.

The bedside lamp crashes to the wooden floor when Adam throws himself back, falling out of bed, sheets dragged with him. Something crushes under him, leaving glass in his back and his hands as he kicks, feet knocking the bed-frame in his scramble to get away, but his knees won’t hold him and he keeps falling as he stumbles towards the closest door.

He’s shaking, skin crawling, and there’s a silent scream stuck in his throat with the sensory memory of past things malevolent and undefined, though close enough to remember beneath the ripping lake of his mind, its surface slick and permeable, if Adam only dipped his hand in to see—

Adam jumps at the hands on his knee and shoulder. Michael is crouching beside him, frowning in concern.

“Adam, stop – wait.”

Michael’s head turns with the force of Adam smashing the bedside lamp across his face. It shatters in his hands, across Michael’s cheek, and the angel blinks, stunned. A moment later the cuts in his skin begin to weep, but Adam’s already clambering for his next weapon.

He throws the bottle of water as he yanks free; there’s a small fan unplugged on the ground beside the night stand that Adam improvises as a club. Michael’s head snaps to the side, still stunned from the blow of the lamp, but the angel catches his wrist at the second blow and Adam can see Michael is collecting himself, eyes narrowed dangerously when Adam wrenches the entire top drawer out of the night stand, swings it down over Michael’s head with his free hand spilling pens, post-its and other junk before the heavy wood connects and splinters.

There’s a fleeting spark of hope in Adam’s chest that he might actually survive this when Michael falls against the bed’s side with a soft grunt, but he’s already pushing the drawer off and _why the fuck won’t this guy go down?_

Adam sees the old scissors before they skitter to a stop by his knee, dull metal glimmering in the dim light. His hands are bloody with glass fragments and the scissors slide in his palm.

Michael’s eyes widen when Adam lunges, but the angel is faster and the scissors spear his hand instead of his heart. Adam recoils at the shuddering impact up his arm of metal through sinew and bone. An awful, cornered sound tears from his throat through the disgust and fear, and he rips the scissors out to strike again. But Michael’s already there, _of course_ he’s already there, with his powerful fingers around Adam’s wrist, swiping blood across Adam’s arms when he catches him and tugs him in.

Adam fights, but the only thing he can do is make himself as small as possible when Michael’s arms close around him, vices of muscle and grace like bands upon bands of superheated metal melting against his skin, vaporizing through his flesh.

_I don’t – no, no, please stop, please let me go –_

He’s crumbling, teeth gritted around a high keen of agony he doesn’t realize he’s making because his head is ringing and he’s going to be sick. He wants to throw up until he can’t feel, he wants the world to stop in time, he wants desperately to not exist because he can’t catch his breath and he can’t go through this again.

Words muffle against his temple as Michael pulls Adam close in his lap. The angel’s voice is low and urgent, absent of the bass and hiss that Adam expects, and it sounds almost like what he remembers of concern. A hand pushes through his hair, tugging away quickly when Adam jerks with a pained whimper at the fingers that feel like blades over his scalp and Adam’s ready to keel when it all suddenly stops.

It’s like somebody’s flicked a switch, the fire’s fallen back, but Adam’s still in Michael’s lap, swaying, disoriented, and oversensitive as a thick blanket is pulled tight around his shoulders. Adam shudders at the hand stroking down his back through the barrier.

“Adam… what’s happened to you?”

There was no mistaking Michael’s brand, but the thing within the human holding Adam sounded broken and horrified. Adam blinks at the angel through the sweat in his eyes, nausea rolling fresh at Michael’s sick imitation of distress because the only thing worse than outright torture was the play of being kind, of resettling into some sort of peace, before it started all over again.

“Calm down, I’m here,” Michael says, as if that’s supposed to make any sense to his victim. He holds on when Adam pushes against his chest with a weak note of desperation.

_Let me go, let me go, let me go—_

Michael stills. Adam feels his hold squeeze tighter for a moment, possessive, cloying, then two fingers press to his forehead.

“Please. Please, just breathe. I’m not going anywhere,” Michael says.

Adam has a moment to choke on his grief before the black takes him.

-*-

_There are only three of them in the cage now._

_Adam can hear them like bubbles of sound gurgling through water. At first he thinks he’s the one above the surface and he strains his ears._

_The gurgle erupts in a geyser; Adam claps both hands over his ears with a cry, and the cage inverses on its axis._

_Adam slams to his knees against a new ground that’s slippery and squelches beneath his boots. He gags, pushing to his hands and knees, and his fingers come away covered in the thick muck. The smell makes his stomach roll and he vomits blood and water because he hasn’t eaten, hasn’t drunk in what feels like years._

_The geyser is still gushing in his ears, but he looks up when it threads, thinning out, and the eerie quiet makes every instinct clamber to attention because the angels are still there somewhere out of sight, a distant vibration of sound beneath his skin._

_The quiet splits in a horrifying shriek, Adam staggers, but that’s not an angel._

_And it’s not alone._

_He squints in the red-tinted dark, wet hands fisting and unfisting at his sides. He hears the wet, squelching shuffle before he sees them. The awkward stop and start way that they drag their feet, as though with a limp, a broken hip, or a shattered body._

_They gape at him when they’re finally close enough for Adam to see. They’re people, or they’re the wretched, reanimated shades of things that used to be, like they walked through a slaughterhouse and forgot to break their stride. They’re a disheartened patchwork of bleeding eyes, hanging jaws (some missing) and shredded bodies pockmarked with disease and long, brutal tears exposing muscle and bones to gleam in the low light._

_Adam shudders when they moan and stagger close, a helpless sob strangling his throat._

_He has to run. He has to run. He has to run._

_He can’t move. One of them lifts a hand, reaching for him. And then as one, they swarm._

_Somewhere above, where Adam’s screams have long faded before they reach this space, two archangels war on._

-*-

The second time Adam wakes up, he's back in the bed.

The overhead lights are dimmed, the sheets arranged neatly and untucked up to his shoulders. Voices murmur in the hall beyond the open door, almost familiar; Adam's heard them before, but he can’t name them.

He glances around the room and Dean smiles at him from the chair at the desk.

"Hey, kid," Dean says, warm and quiet.

"... Dean?"

Adam blinks and looks Dean over in his flannel sleeves, denim jeans and working boots. He looks at his own bandaged hands, warm and tingling on the duvet. The laptop is open to what looks like a page of search results in the internet browser; Dean shuts the lid and rolls the chair to the bed's side.

"Are you real?" Adam stares at him.

Instead of answering his question, Dean nods at his bandaged hands, smile thinning to something wry and sympathetic.

"Domestic troubles?"

Dean looks good, strong and limber, but there are more lines around his eyes and mouth. His smooth skin shows the early signs of weathering too many days standing in the sun, though Adam really only met the guy once, so his impression wasn't the most reliable benchmark. He still looks and feels older than Adam expects.

"Is he gone?" Adam asks, hushed.

Dean frowns, searching his face.

"Mike?"

Adam stares at his brother's perfectly straight expression. _Mike?_

"Dean, Michael's jumped the cage. Man, I woke up in this fucking bed and he was _right there_. We need to get out of here, now. Where are we? Is Sam here?"

Dean's hand settles over Adam’s forehead, the coolness of his skin sapping some of the residual panic.

"You want to tell me how you did that?" Dean gestures at Adam’s hands, thin white bandages wrapped tight.

"I was trying to fight off an archangel -- dude! Did you hear what I just said?"

"Your fever broke a few hours ago, but I think it's still throwing you for a loop. Adam, trust me, okay? You’ve got to rest right now."

Adam stares at his brother, weak horror stirring in his chest.

"Dean, are you listening to me? Michael was here! He’s probably coming back and he can’t get his hands on you, we have to get out--"

Dean pushes him gently back down to the pillow.

"And your big brother's telling you everything's going to be okay. I’ve taken care of it. Nothing's going to hurt you while I'm here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

A chill goes through Adam; that’s what _he_ had said.

"Dean--"

"Adam," Dean says, louder and firm. It's the voice of authority, practiced and honed to settle the final word. Dean, unlike Adam, has had a sibling to practice on his entire life. "We're safe now. You're _safe_ , you hear me?”

Dean’s determined green eyes look into him, unwavering, until Adam releases a long breath and lets his head flop back against the pillow, despite his better judgment. There’s a stone sinking in his chest and he knows that he’s going to regret this.

“I’m going to stay right here until you fall asleep,” Dean assures him, gently squeezing his shoulder.

Dean hands him the fresh glass of water from the nightstand after he swallows, dryly. He thanks his brother quietly when Dean takes the glass back.

“Is Sam here?”

“The family’s looking out for each other and I’ll answer all your questions later, but right now we’ve got to look after you.”

Adam strains to hear those voices in the hall. They’ve fallen silent.

“He got out before me, you know, is he… is he okay?”

“Sam’s great; he wants to see you after you’re rested up. So, shut your pie-hole and start counting sheep.”

Adam glances at the windows, glowing with what could be the late morning sun, but Dean’s watching him with an expectation like he won’t even blink until Adam’s drifted off.

Adam clears his throat, resettling his shoulders with a hiss when he tries to turn on his side. His skin screams like he’s been sunburned at the slightest pressure and the discomfort must show on his face because Dean motions to the empty glass of water.

“I put some painkillers in there; they should kick in soon.”

Adam glances uneasily between the open door and his brother. Dean follows his gaze, gets up and shuts the door without a word. Adam instantly feels better without the threat of bodiless voices plotting behind the walls and unseen eyes peering around at him.

It’s just him and Dean.

“You going to stare at me all day?” Adam mutters, when Dean’s resettled himself in the squeaky desk chair, and he smirks at Adam like he’s in on a larger secret.

Dean wheels to the desk and brings the laptop back with him, but Adam can’t see what he starts typing. Adam’s eyelids are growing heavy when he blinks, watching his brother smile at something he’s read before the keys tap-tap.

“Are you cybersexing in front of me?” Adam mutters, half-muffled in the pillow.

“Remote sexting, dude, get with it. Thanks for your laptop.” Dean winks at him and Adam groans, shutting his eyes against the sight even if he has no memory to claim ownership over the device.

“Too early?” Dean prompts.

“Too _tired_ to bite you back, man,” Adam says, but he likes the sound of Dean’s chuckle. He’d like the chance to get used to it.

_“Then get to sleep already.”_

“I’m trying, fuck you.”

Adam’s almost smiling when he rolls on his side away from Dean, the warm safe feeling in his chest overriding the itchy, crawling burn in and beneath his skin. It gives him something else to focus on until he’s dropped off before he’s even realized the pain has settled to a dull ache.

-*-

When Adam’s breaths slow and even out, Dean shuts the laptop’s lid and sets it back on the desk. He feels the smirk fading as he bites his tongue and leans forward on his knees to consider what he’s just learned.

It’s bad.

He’s expecting the knock at the door when it comes, a soft rap of knuckles, and he rises to let them in rather than call out and wake Adam from his healing sleep.

Bobby bumps Dean with his underused cane when he shuffles in, expecting the younger man to move out of his way. Dean sighs; he should really know better by now.

“How is he?” Bobby murmurs, voice gravely, and Dean suspects the older hunter’s coming down with something.

Dean nods, resigned, and looks to the third man hovering in the doorway.

“It’s like you said.”

Michael’s hooded eyes are on Adam, asleep in the bed. His arms are tightly crossed, expression dark, and he turns back to the hall in silent invitation for them to follow.

Dean shuts the bedroom door behind them and sighs.

“From what he told me, I’m guessing the last thing he remembers is the cage – or getting pulled into it.”

Bobby’s stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs by Michael’s shoulder, eyes narrowed at the angel unhappily.

“—Thought you and he felt everything together,” Bobby accuses. “Wasn’t that one of your special features? And you didn’t know something was up?”

Michael’s looking down the staircase to the bright living room below and the last time Dean saw that frown of concentration, the archangel was arming for war.

“It doesn’t work both ways,” Dean supplies for Michael’s benefit, studying the angel’s stoic expression. “But it saved Adam’s life once.”

Bobby’s scowl deepens and he turns that souring look on Michael.

“Didn’t you feel the change?”

Michael finally comes out of his stasis; he shakes his head and absently slides his palm over the balcony’s cream banister.

“No. I woke and he was already different. Then he tried to kill me – he was ineffective, of course.” Michael’s mouth twists and Dean regards the bloody sleeve cuffs, the dried blood on his collar, though any evidence of the incident has since healed without a mark. Adam wasn’t so lucky, but from what Dean can tell, it was all accidentally self-inflicted.

He spares a moment to be glad Michael became the sort of person who calls family to an emergency before thinking of his own state.

That Michael became a person at all, in a way defined by more than flesh and blood.

It was still weird, considering ‘Michael’ and ‘family’ in the same sentence.

 _He’s afraid of you_ , Dean doesn’t say.

“You noticed anything unusual in the area? Even over the last couple of months?” Dean asks and Michael gives him one of his _other_ looks that Dean appreciates so much, like Dean’s a moron for thinking Michael hadn’t already considered all the options.

He’s pretty sure Michael learned that unimpressed bitch face from Sam.

“Aside from the unseasonable frost? No. Those people from the vineyard will blame it on faeries if you speak to them,” Michael says, voice tight with annoyance, but Dean doesn’t take it personally. He knows the angel’s mind is on Adam.

“They don’t like you,” Dean reminds him.

“They don’t,” Michael agrees. His expression is growing distant and he’s frowning again.

Dean’s pretty sure they’re going to lose him to another inner monologue unless one of them steps in quick.

“So, what are we dealing with here? Did he knock his head too hard and just forget the last five years?” Bobby asks, but Michael’s already shaking his head.

“Adam is….” Michael looks back to the door, swallows thickly as though he still doesn’t trust if he has the right words, “That is not our Adam.”

Dean pales.

“What – you mean like a shifter? Skinwalker? Damn it, tell me it’s not another ghoul!” His stomach drops away and it might be a sign of his age that he has to reach for the banister to keep himself steady. “Please, please don’t tell me something got to him.”

Michael glares at him.

“That was not what I meant.”

Dean wants to punch him. He was getting too old for this shit. He doesn't know how many more shocks like that his heart could take and he was still on the better side of forty.

“It’s Adam,” Michael assures them, eyes narrowing at that door again, “But he is… I searched his mind while he was unconscious. He doesn’t remember us, he’s missing the last few years and he won’t remember them because those memories _are not there_. They haven’t been taken or repressed. That would leave a mark; they just never _were_.”

Dean stares, shakes his head like he’s shrugging off a trance, and he can tell from Bobby’s face that he’s just about fed up as well.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean demands, cursing an apology when his voice rises and Bobby throws him a warning look.

This was probably a conversation they should have taken downstairs.

“He’s missing scars. His soul is raw, his reaction to my grace was… violent. He’s _younger_.” Michael’s voice halts with regret, hand tightening around the banister.

Dean stares at Michael’s profile, and then it strikes him.

“It’s – wait, are you saying –“

“… He’s from another time, ain’t he?” Bobby growls, a white-knuckled grip on his cane.

Michael’s expression hardens, cold.

“Once I escaped the cage, I always wondered how he restored himself so quickly after—” Michael stops and shakes his head, thinking better than to remind Dean of what he and Lucifer had done to his brothers to pass time in the cage – especially when Dean was just starting to forgive him for it. “Now I understand. He was returned to the wrong time.”

“So, who’s the guy we found all those years back?” Dean asks, because the pieces still don’t fit. “… Was that _our_ Adam?”

Dean stretches his memory back and remembers how Adam had handled himself, standing tall, more confident and at ease than he was before he’d even fallen into the cage: the way he’d smile at Dean sometimes, warm and encouraging, as if he knew a secret for their survival; the way he’d sit with Sam, shoulder-to-shoulder, and assure him that it was all going to be okay when he thought Dean couldn’t hear them (and Dean had wanted to hit him upside the head for talking about things he didn’t know); the way Adam hadn’t run from Michael when the angel eventually found them, and then looked surprised when Michael punched a hand through his chest.

If it was true… suddenly it made sense. But then, why hadn’t Adam said anything? All these years and he hadn’t said a word.

Michael is shaking his head again, intently studying the floor boards.

“I don’t know. I can’t – I can’t feel….”

Dean doesn’t like the shifting expressions of confusion and upset in Michael’s face. He’s come to depend on Michael as his Adam-Positioning-Satellite for so long that realizing the connection’s been broken with those hushed words brings everything home.

Dean lets the banister bear his full weight and Bobby is scowling at the both of them.

“On the bright side, we must be about to do something right because he was fine in the past, wasn’t he? Better than new?” Bobby asks.

Dean and Michael exchange a long look. They’ve never talked about it. They haven’t passed enough years to look back and laugh, even if that was the sort of thing they did.

“Was he?” Michael asks, quietly.

Dean has to break that stare because he doesn’t like thinking about those times when he finally got his brothers back – both of them – and things got twice as hard for a really long time. He doesn’t like bringing those memories into their homes for fear of threatening this tentative peace they’ve all found.

If he was honest, he was still chasing his.

“More or less,” Dean says and heads down the stairs, boots treading quietly.

What Michael didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and what didn’t hurt Michael wouldn’t spill over to the rest of them with passive aggressive gusto.

“Thank you, for calming him down,” Michael says when Dean’s almost at the foot of the stairs.

Dean nods, because Adam-out-of-time or not, it’s still his brother and Dean’s just glad it worked.

-*-

_Adam runs._

_He runs and stumbles through ankle-deep flesh and blood and bone and sometimes he gets far enough that he thinks he might outrun the slow-advancing horde of undead._

_He might run far enough, but then tangle in a web of tendons or mottled ribcages left like a forgotten bear trap. Or he runs and stabs an upright, broken bone right through his foot._

_He runs, heart thundering in his ears and he wishes it was louder to deafen their noise, but he always hears them before he sees them._

_He runs, something trips him, and the things at his back catch his heels, drag him back. They incise him using slow, curious tears with blunt, bony fingers and never think to abort his screams by going for his throat or tongue first._

_They catch him every time, made clumsy by terror…_

_Until the day he stops running._

_He’s stopped looking for an exit that doesn’t exist. He’s stopped hoping and screaming and processing the pain. He’s stopped understanding anything but the ever-constant drum of terror in his ears, splitting agony between his eyes until he can no longer see in simple hues of red and black._

_He doesn’t see any more at all, but he learns there are always bones at his feet._

_He reaches down and snaps a femur from the skeleton’s socket, grip slippery with blood. His other hand sinks through rotting skin and fat, finds an empty skull and pulls it free with fingers hooked in the eyes._

_They’re at his heels again, slushing through the wreck of broken bodies, but now Adam knows where the bones are, knows which length of sinew is within his reach to catch and garrotte and he wonders how he had never seen it before. They pulse at him like radioactive weapons in the dark._

_Overhead, something brilliant crashes through the sky of this field of bodies before it’s lanced in the side, but Adam’s already too blind to see. His skin blisters, peels and bleeds from its residual heat. It crashes past him and keeps on falling. The ground shakes with a pained howl when the bright, foreign light plummets and pierces right through._

_He doesn’t feel the breaks in his skin or the ground’s tremors. He doesn’t hear the cage’s scream or the angel that shouts his name before the field reforms behind him to swallow the sound._

_He’s still standing and there are still things reaching for him with broken hands._

_He raises the sharp-ended bone and this time he attacks first._

-*-

Castiel arrives later that afternoon, appearing at Dean’s arm while the man is hunched at the dining table and searching for clues of Adam’s displacement.

So far he’s come up empty, but there are a lot of file notes to sort through and it’s not like Dean had much of a system. He wasn’t their Dad: there was no journal, only the memories he’d put on paper in the time since he came downstairs. A lot of shit went down and they didn’t all have time for group therapy or reflection when everyone was running and ducking for cover.

He lolls back in his chair with a genuine sense of relief when the air shifts and Castiel is there, trench coat brushing his elbow, curious judgment narrowed at Dean’s notes.

“I didn’t know you kept journals,” Castiel says by way of greeting and Dean smiles up at him.

“I don’t.”

“Oh.” Castiel nods, the disarray over the dining table explained, and he looks around the room, to the open arches that lead toward the foyer and the other way towards the lounge.

“How’s life managing the Heavenly Host?” Dean asks.

Castiel blinks at him with a narrowed look suggesting he’d like to push Dean out of his chair.

“Difficult.”

… Okay, then.

Bobby is catching his grandpa nap on the thick, weathered armchair by the east-facing windows. The hunter’s slouched comfortably, snoring softly into his own shoulder, and before they all leave, Dean’s going to take a picture for Adam’s fridge.

Dean points towards the kitchen.

“Mike’s sulking in the backyard; don’t get sucked down with him.”

Castiel blinks, glancing over Dean’s person, giving no indication that commiseration was in his plans for the afternoon.

“Have we determined your brother’s condition?”

Dean shrugs it off with a shoulder.

“Wrong brother, wrong time.” Dean regrets it almost as soon as he’s said it because he feels like he’s degrading their dilemma, but if Michael had told them as much to start with, maybe, they could have taken action sooner.

Dean doesn’t have enough excuses to call Castiel these days.

His youngest brother is upstairs in that room, drugged into sedation, because they were too worried he’d hurt himself or somebody else if he woke up still raw from his trauma.

“Dean, can you be more specific?” Castiel frowns suspiciously as though he’s trying to gauge if Dean was misleading him.

Dean misses that about him.

He explains to Castiel what they’ve discovered and watches the angel shift from suspicion to curiosity, then clinical assessment and finally understanding of why Michael has called for him.

“Adam’s soul has been ravaged by Hell, Michael will require me to heal him,” Castiel says, nodding to himself, and turns on his heel, headed for the stairs.

Dean startles at Castiel’s abrupt leave.

“Uh – Cas!”

Castiel stops in the wooden archway, wearing a look like he’s clearly expecting Dean to have a good reason for interrupting his business.

Dean thinks quickly and points to the kitchen again. Its windows face onto the backyard, which was more of a fruit grove backing onto a paddock.

“Don’t you think you should check in with Mike first? A little angel pow-wow?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow at Dean, considering it. He nods once and turns for the kitchen instead, before Dean interrupts him again.

“I want to be there.”

Castiel looks back, expression slightly offended.

“We’ll take care of him, Dean.”

Dean knows that, but Adam won’t, and he made the kid a promise.

“Look, just, don’t go ahead without me. Okay?”

He sees Castiel’s jaw tighten and the guy actually shrugs, but it’s minute; he barely lifts his shoulders. Dean catches it because he’s spent the last five years learning Castiel’s tells.

“If you wish,” Castiel says and disappears before Dean can interrupt him from taking another step.

Damn it.

He forgets about snapping the picture of Bobby ageing comfortably in that armchair Adam had salvaged from the vineyard owners.

Dean stares at the spot where Castiel had stood. He makes the decision to gather his things and heads upstairs to the room Adam usually shared with Michael.

It was going to be interesting to see how well Michael dealt with being relegated to the couch. Dean wonders if it had occurred to the archangel yet. If not, Dean’s disclaiming responsibility of breaking the news to him – Bobby could have that one. The thought cheers him a little as he climbs the stairs, papers messily clasped in his hands.

He’s relieved to find Adam still asleep, snoring softly on his back with the sheets pooled to his waist. Depositing his papers on the desk, Dean tucks the sheets back to his brother’s shoulders, rolls the chair out to sit, and waits.

These are angels they’re talking about; he could be waiting a while.

He flips his phone open and smiles when he realises he’s received a text from Sam.

_Tell me what’s happening, jerk._

Ah, Sam. So much manly panic in so few words.

_Think everything’s going to be ok. Mike just woke up with a virgin, lol._

The response is almost instantaneous.

_Michael cheated??? I’m calling you._

Dean scrambles to reply before his gigantor brother’s fingers can punch the right speed dial.

_Can’t talk, Adam’s sleeping. No cheating, explain later._

_WTF._ Sam’s reply seems to groan at him. _What’s going on over there? Should I come around?_

Dean stares at the message and seriously considers it.

He wants Sam. He _needs_ him there, but Dean doesn’t know how the rest of the day will go down and the last thing he wants is for Sam to walk into another mess just when he was finally building something. Even if it was a tentative something with people Dean was even less confident calling ‘people’.

He wants Sam to be happy, be more than a shoulder to prop him up. Not again.

_Call you later. Don’t worry._

Dean shuts his phone with the sinking suspicion he’s just made a bad situation worse.

Adam stirs on the bed with a soft noise of discomfort and Dean frowns against the impulse to wake him.

It’s maybe ten minutes later that Castiel and Michael join him, door latch shaky like the rest of this old cottage, hinges whining. A memory passes behind Dean’s eyes of Adam throwing his coat over the back of the desk chair, door swinging wide against the bureau as he ran Dean through the endless list of things he’d planned to mend. Adam rolled his eyes for Dean’s benefit, he was sure, because Adam loved this house.

Castiel’s face is curious and careful when he sets eyes on Adam and whatever he sees makes him flinch. Dean straightens nervously in his chair. Michael doesn’t respond to the dark look Castiel gives him because he’s already moving towards the bed.

“Has he woken again?” Michael asks, sinking to the foot of the bed, and Dean shakes his head. Michael looks torn between disappointed and grateful; he smiles ruefully. “There was a time when I wouldn’t have to ask you that.”

“Different time, different Adam,” Dean amends, having learned his lesson with Castiel downstairs. “So, what’s the plan?”

Castiel hovers by the desk, scanning the papers Dean’s been studying all afternoon.

“Adam’s soul is attempting to heal itself. Without intervention, the process will be imperfect. Your brother’s seen true horror, Dean, but he’s survived at a terrible cost. His soul is mangled. If he wakes again, you should be ready for anything.”

“He already woke up once – twice. That’s a good sign, right?” Dean asks.

“If those wounds reopen one day, it could be catastrophic. For him and those around him. You remember what happened to Sam.”

Michael’s expression is pale and stony, and if they were trying to discourage Dean, it was seriously working. He was also confused.

“So, what does that mean?” Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “You’re _not_ going to help him?”

Because that’s why Michael brought him here. Michael wouldn’t have bothered if there wasn’t hope – except that’s exactly the sort of thing Dean would expect from any of them.

_Which Goddamn family did they think this was, anyway?_

Castiel draws something in the air, watching Adam sleep.

“I’ll need to scar him.”

Dean chokes.

“What?”

“His soul needs to scar and heal over those hundreds of years he spent in Hell, or you may not like what wakes up when Adam next opens his eyes.”

Okay, that was… creepy and disturbing, but there was still something Dean didn’t understand.

“Why couldn’t _you_ do it? You’ve got the most juice in the whole factory,” Dean asks Michael.

Michael glances up, meeting Dean’s accusing glare. There are shadows under Michael’s eyes and he looks away quickly. Well, that was the sort of reaction Dean had hoped to inspire, even if it was five years late.

“Lucifer and I—” Michael searches, slowly, “—Adam’s soul had learned not to heal. But it hasn’t learned Castiel, so Adam will respond to his grace,” Michael explains.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Michael tells him with absolute certainty, and Dean supposes that’s fair because these angels were in the business of souls and eternity, while Dean was more exclusively in the industry of salting and charring things off the mortal coil.

“Okay.” Dean nods. “Well. Can I do anything?”

“Pray,” Michael says.

Dean blinks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat with a sceptical eyebrow. Michael seemed completely serious.

Castiel moves to the bed and hesitates, warring with something. He turns back to Dean reluctantly.

“Dean, this will not be pleasant or easy. You don’t need to be here.”

Michael’s just told him there’s little to nothing that Dean can do to help. Dean shrugs at the stupid implication.

“I’m staying.”

Castiel’s jaw clenches, his shoulders still tense as he sighs.

Dean moves to the other side of the bed so Michael can hold his vigil at the foot on the corner, because if Castiel couldn’t get a human to budge, there was no way he was evicting Heaven’s sword. Castiel seems annoyed with the both of them, but Michael’s not looking at Dean; he just gestures vaguely to Castiel that he has permission to make Dean’s brother better.

Dean pulls the sheet back from Adam’s neck, skin shining with a light sheen of sweat. Dean’s not sure what Castiel needs, but he feels like he should have a damp washcloth or something ready; a thermometer maybe or a heart pressure band.

He swallows when Castiel leans over Adam and rolls back his sleeve. That motion makes Dean’s tongue thick and heavy, sticking to the roof of his mouth as an almost-forgotten anxiety stirs in his stomach.

Castiel glances up at Dean, expression hard.

“You may need to hold him down,” Castiel says and Dean’s glad he stayed after all.

He reaches for Adam’s shoulder and Castiel lays a palm flat over his sternum. The room seems to take a collective breath. Dean feels it when Adam’s body stiffens, Castiel’s fingers sinking through his chest with a hiss that reminds Dean of burning plastic.

Adam groans tightly and Dean checks his face, but he’s still asleep.

When Castiel sinks in up to his elbow, Adam screams, body bowing into the bed in a desperate, involuntary attempt to retreat from the seeking hand. The noise he’s making is torn, agonized and breathless. Somehow, Adam’s still unconscious and Dean wonders if Castiel is keeping him that way.

Dean’s ears ring, but he bites down the shudder and the sting behind his eyes with a scowl, looks away from the light of Adam’s wretched soul burning like an obscured sun through his chest, and holds him down.

There’s a sudden storm of boots on the stairs and Bobby rushes into the room, eyes wide and horrified like he’s expecting to see a murder in progress. He almost bowls Michael over at the foot of the bed, but Michael catches his arm to steady him.

Dean feels the guilt low in his stomach for not warning Bobby beforehand. If he was considering his own heart, he could only imagine the shock Bobby must have had.

The horror doesn’t fade from Bobby’s face as he looks from Castiel’s determined concentration, elbow deep in Adam’s chest, to Dean holding him down by his shoulders.

Dean’s hoping the old man leaves, for his own sake, but then Bobby takes one look at Michael and he must see something that draws him to the same conclusion because he grabs the angel by the back of his neck and yanks him along like Michael was any of his stupid idjits.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bobby says and Dean’s surprised that Michael lets the hunter push him from the room, shoulders slumped. Bobby gives Dean the grim, serious order with a mere look before he shuts the door behind them.

_Get it done._

Dean grinds his jaw and holds on when Adam abruptly wrenches under his hands.

“How are you doing, Cas?” Dean asks, through gritted teeth, and hopes it won’t be much longer.

Castiel doesn’t answer. His free hand is braced over Adam’s neck like a precaution. All Castiel would have to do is squeeze and he could crush Adam’s windpipe, strangle the last of his life from him. His eyes are shut like he’s listening carefully for a note or that one bell in a larger symphony and he cocks his head, frowning slightly.

Adam is still screaming. He’s going to scream his throat bloody.

Dean wishes he could shut his ears. Instead, he holds Adam down and prays that it’s over soon.

-*-

_It turns out that victory is short-lived in Hell._

_Adam wields the monsters’ flesh and bones, rips their limbs even as they lunge at him and though the flesh tears and bones break, there’s an endless supply to take as his new pike and club._

_They reform, gurgling up from the writhing mass of their battlefield, but without breath, without fear, or hope, Adam can now fight forever._

_It doesn’t take forever for the angels to crash through the veil into his corner of the cage once more._

_Lucifer and Michael are tangled in their fall. They twist, strike, and re-surge, incinerating everything ahead and around their path in a moment. The monsters halt with a shock, flash-burned, before they crumble and rush away on the incoming wind of the angels’ flight._

_Adam is beyond understanding now, but he turns his cheek to their glory and burns through skin, flesh, and discovers his soul still knows how to keen in this refreshing agony. It should be over in an instant. It isn’t._

_His throat and chest have charred away when a wisp of grace plunges for him and Adam goes, dragged after Michael and Lucifer as they battle on._

_They fight, Adam’s vessel disintegrates, and they all fall together._

-*-

One thing Bobby had to give the old cottage: its thick walls proved to be good sound-proofing.

After dragging the archangel downstairs and dumping him at the dining table, Bobby almost couldn’t hear Adam screaming like he was being eaten alive.

Almost.

Bobby tried persuading the angel to leave the house, take himself anywhere he wouldn’t have to listen to what was going on upstairs. After the second time Bobby suggested it, Michael had asked if Bobby would go with him, but someone had to be here for Dean when it was all over. Adam would probably sleep on, but Dean….

Michael stayed with Bobby in the end.

It’s been two hours.

Michael is slumped over the table with his hands curled in his hair. His head hangs, shoulders tense, and Bobby hopes the angel will take the beer he slides across the table.

There’s a pause before Michael reaches for it. He rolls the bottle between his palms on the table, back and forth, but doesn’t drink.

Bobby hovers by the table and considers his own beer, clearing his throat loudly.

“Is there someone I should call?” Bobby asks, gruffly.

He’s not surprised when Michael shakes his head, freezing when another scream rips through the air. Michael pushes the bottle away and he has the face of someone who looks like they’re about to be sick.

Bobby considers leaving him to check the wards on the property again, just to get away from the noise before it completely shatters his nerves, but then he hears the door upstairs whine and shut. Dean’s heavy footfalls stomp down the stairs and his face is ashen when he enters the kitchen.

Bobby and Michael both straighten, anticipating his news, but Dean makes a beeline for the fridge.

“Well?” Bobby asks, wary at the speed Dean gulps down his beer, like he’s angry at his thirst and he’s looking to drown.

Quietly, just to himself, Bobby sort of wishes Sam was there with them. Sam’s been texting him through the last few hours, but Bobby’s kept his answers short. He and Dean have an unspoken agreement that Sam gets shielded, especially if there’s nothing he can do, but Bobby misses the man like his own son. He misses just having his mountainous hulk around like a tangible saint of compassion and the good intentions they’d all fought for.

Dean’s breathing hard when he reaches for his second bottle and throws the cap in the sink, sagging against the counter. There’s colour returning to his face; Bobby can tell he’s feeling the alcohol take effect because the lines around his eyes are smoothing out, his scowl lifting to something less severe. By the time Dean rests the bottle against his hip, two thirds empty, his expression has almost completely closed.

“He’s alive,” Dean says. “I’m starving.”

Bobby looks from Dean, to the stone-faced angel, and back again before making a quick decision.

“I’ll – run to the store. Get something for dinner,” he says, even though there’s probably a full pantry of canned goods he and Dean could gorge themselves on ‘til the end of days.

“You should leave,” Dean says, abruptly, and Bobby thinks he’s agreeing with him, except he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to deserve _that_ voice.

Dean’s glaring death at Michael when Bobby turns around.

Yeah. It’s definitely a pizza night.

Neither Dean nor Michael glances his way when he slips from the kitchen. He closes the front door behind him with a huge sigh of relief, breathing the cool, country night air deep.

The air in the house was closed, thick and stifled. Too many old memories resurging together and if Bobby was lucky the house would still be standing when he got back.

-*-

“I’m staying,” Michael says.

His voice is matter-of-fact, but rough. Dean recognises an opening when he hears it.

“How much of it was you?” Dean clenches the bottle, slippery with condensation.

Michael shakes his head with a look of dazed confusion.

“What?”

“I’m deaf in one ear because I had to hold my brother down for _hours_ so Cas could stitch him together,” Dean growls.

“Scar,” Michael supplies, quietly.

Dean slams the bottle down on the counter.

“I thought I was done with the PTSD of you and _Lucifer_.” Dean points to the upstairs bedroom. “Did you _hear_ him?”

Michael looks at his hands on the table; there’s a thread of something drawn between his fingers, but Dean’s not done.

“What the hell did you _do_?”

“… I didn’t intervene,” Michael says.

Dean waits for him to go on, trembling with rage.

Michael shakes his head and pulls his hands from the table, shoulders drawing in.

“Lucifer and I… fought. He tortured us and he conjured things in the cage to assist him. I tortured him. I was vulnerable if I tried to aid Sam and Adam, even to hide them. So, I didn’t... until it was too late.”

Michael winces at the memory.

“One day Lucifer turned on our vessels. I wasn’t kind to Sam, either, I’m sorry. But Adam was mine. I retaliated against Sam because he pulled me down with him… but Adam….” Michael looks out the kitchen window to the backyard, which had grown dark without Dean’s notice. “I’m sorry, Dean. I stole Adam back in the end, but Lucifer had hidden them away for so long.”

Dean kicks back the chair opposite from Michael. His bottle _clunks_ to the table and there’s a tense, heavy pause when Dean considers breaking it over Michael’s head.

He drops into the chair instead, huffing frustration, and drains his beer.

“—What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

Michael pushes his own bottle across the table and Dean snatches it right out of his hand, taking a long, spiteful swig. He doesn’t feel better.

“I’m staying,” Michael says again, but all Dean hears is _I’m sorry._

“You better be ready to haul ass over high water ‘cause this is on you,” Dean says.

Michael leans his elbows on the table and it’s the heavy, swallowing silence before Michael’s nod that assures Dean the angel gets how serious this is. That will make Dean’s job a hell of a lot easier.

“And you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Michael blinks at him, confused.

“What? Oh.”

Dean sees Michael process it before he seems to understand and nods again.

“Yes, of course – I –” But then Michael just shakes his head and hands the floor back to Dean. “Is there anything else?”

Dean considers it, drums his fingers on his beer and –

There’s a shift in the air and then Dean’s eyes widen, before he shoots to his feet.

“Adam.”

Adam lolls against Castiel’s shoulder where they’ve appeared by the table. He looks Dean’s way with a groggy frown of irritation or confusion, but he’s awake and he’s standing, and that is… God, that’s such a relief.

“He was thirsty,” Castiel explains, propping Adam against the counter, and reaches into the fridge.

Michael’s also rising to his feet when Adam twists, folding over the sink and clumsily spinning the knob, drinking straight from the tap.

“Uh—” Dean sweeps to his brother’s side because Adam doesn’t look entirely steady, he may just be _falling_ into the sink as he gulps the water down, eyes closed, and the water runs down his chin, into his shirt, rushing off his cheek and finally, Adam seems to have caught himself.

He pants, open-mouthed against the stream, forehead resting on his hand over the faucet. Dean can see that his blue eyes are dull and unfocused when they open. He reaches over Adam, slowly, and turns the faucet off.

Adam doesn’t react to Dean’s hand over his. Castiel is at Adam’s back when Dean pulls him upright, corrects his sway with hands on his arms.

“Hey,” Dean says, searching Adam’s face carefully, the angel’s words ringing in his head and he realises he’s looking for traces of Hell. Whatever that meant. “How you doing?”

Adam looks stoned, there’s water dripping down his chin and his neck. His expression is unmoved when he meets Dean’s eye.

“Why you touching me, man?” Adam eventually asks, voice shredded. Dean’s stomach tightens at the thought of why. Adam makes a feeble gesture like he’s trying to pull out of Dean’s reach. “’Hell are you?”

“… Adam, do you know who I am?” Dean prompts.

“Free hugs?”

Adam’s knees buckle and all three other men jump, but Michael pulls back before his hand lands on Adam’s shoulder. The expression on Michael’s face is torn when Adam looks up at him, pushing weakly against Castiel and Dean’s efforts to straighten him.

“The hell are you looking at?” Adam growls. He shuts his eyes with a wince like someone’s just scraped their nails down a chalkboard or a headache’s stabbed its way home.

Castiel touches Michael’s shoulder.

“You should leave,” he says.

Michael’s eyes narrow at him, then at Dean when he pipes in with, “That’s what _I_ said.”

“I want to sit down,” Adam mutters and Michael steps aside as Dean leads him to a chair, eases him down into it.

Adam folds his arms on the table and pillows his head on them with a tired groan.

“Michael, I don’t know if your presence might recall what we’ve worked to seal,” Castiel tells his brother, hushed. “He’s not thinking clearly. The scars need time to settle.”

Dean sidles back to them, huddled by the counter, once he’s sure Adam’s not going to tip out of his seat and fall asleep on the floor. Michael’s face is a deep frown of concern watching Adam’s back. Against all his railing anger, Dean remembers what this means for the angel and he glances at Castiel, relenting, just a little.

“Sorry, Mike, I know I told you the couch was yours, but you probably have to go further tonight,” Dean says.

Michael eventually looks at Dean, then Castiel.

“Where should I go?” He shrugs, like he’s never considered it before, as though there was nowhere else for him.

“You can go anywhere, try Egypt – or how about the holy land? They’ve probably missed you.” Dean throws a hand to the window though, by Michael’s narrowed look of irritation, he doesn’t think that’s what the angel was searching for.

Dean deflates with a sigh.

“But you really should—“

Michael’s eyes flash, irises brightening like reflected metal, and he’s gone with a gust of air against Dean’s face, a rope lashed gently at his throat.

“—Go,” Dean finishes, looking about the kitchen. “Huh. Didn’t even want his beer.”

Castiel’s eyes never did that when he flew off. What did it mean when Mike did that? More importantly, should Dean be worried?

Adam’s fallen asleep at the table and Castiel is glaring at Dean when he meets the angel’s eye again.

“What?” Dean asks, because Castiel had started it and he was right! “I thought we were on the same page here.”

“He could have come with me,” Castiel says.

“How? Did they change the rules at immigration?”

Castiel shakes his head like Dean’s trying his patience and Dean stiffens, backing up when Castiel leans into his space, blue eyes bright and intense.

“If one of your civilisations disappears tonight, you’ll regret Michael had not come with me.”

Dean almost falls into the space Castiel leaves behind when the angel disappears, air rushing to fill the gap with an imperceptible crackle that lingers on Dean’s skin and raises the hair on his arms. He rubs his wrists absently.

“Well, could you go after him?” Dean asks the empty space and shakes his head.

If they were lucky, that’s just what Castiel was doing. Goddamn angels; they were all divas. His palms were sweating and he wipes them down his pockets, grinds his jaw, and he spares a glance for his unmoving brother at the table.

He didn’t like arguing with Castiel. But it was better than not seeing him at all.

Adam grunts softly, shoulder twitching in his sleep and Dean sighs. Spotting a blanket over one of the armchairs in the living room, he drapes it over Adam’s shoulders and when Bobby enters the kitchen fifteen minutes later, Dean’s slouched in his own chair, chin on the mouth of his fifth beer.

“’Ey, Bobby, Adam’s awake,” Dean gestures to his dozing brother, beer sloshing in its bottle, “Angels are gone. ‘S that pizza?”

He smiles crookedly at Bobby’s wobbly image that’s shaking its head, something muttered under his breath. Dean sings on the inside at the heavenly smell that wafts from the box Bobby drops under his nose.

“Oh, you’re my favourite,” Dean groans and flips the box open, too drunk to notice or care about Bobby’s disgruntled air or the way the guy sighs and sinks to the table, removing his cap and wiping an arm across his forehead.

Dean’s handed over the reins for the night. His concerns have mercifully reduced to the smell of cheese, tomatoes, and three types of meat. He’s in _Heaven_ after the day he’s had.

“Take it all went well,” Bobby says, wryly, and reaches for his own slice of pizza.

There’s way too much in his voice for Dean’s state of mind so he just slides another beer to his friend and toasts him with a _clink_ that startles Adam bolt upright from his nap.

Adam blinks at them with a bleary frown, blanket falling down the back of his chair.

“Morning, Princess,” Bobby says, casually, though he’s probably anything but relaxed and it’s closer to eight o’clock at night.

Adam blinks again, nonplussed, and Dean wonders if maybe Adam was having problems seeing.

“Is that pizza?” Adam eventually asks and coughs when his voice catches, barely audible.

Bobby pushes the box closer to him and Adam clears his throat loudly, apparently thinking nothing more of it as he coughs discreetly behind a fist and takes his own slice.

It couldn’t be this easy.

The shoe will drop in the morning – if not somewhere around 2AM – and Dean just hopes his pizza stays down. He’s already enjoying dinner a bit less, just thinking about it.

-*-

Adam wakes the next morning under a blanket on the couch with rain pattering against the windows.

He’s slow to come around, stretching and feeling every muscle’s tired complaint as though he had run a marathon the day before. He feels heavy and relaxed, but when he turns on his side, his chest aches and he quickly flattens on his back.

What the hell had he gotten up to yesterday?

He frowns, fingers resting at the middle of his chest where it feels like he’s been punched and crumpled. Swallowing, he’s surprised at the raw, shredded pain that almost makes his eyes water with the simple motion. At that moment, he thinks he’d do anything for a glass of—

Water. He spots it on the small coffee table beside his head and winces as it washes down his throat, stinging all the way. There are pills beside the glass and he swallows those, too.

There’s a long crack in the ceiling’s paint above his head. Resettled, he stares at it, waiting for the throb in his throat and chest to back off. He studies the wood planks in the gap and absently wonders if that were the sort of imperfection that would start flaking if left by itself.

A fresh gust of wind drives the rain like a wave against the window. The minutes pass, quiet and drowsy, and Adam forgets the ache in his chest as his eyes grow heavy again.

He falls back into a dream of lying on a sea wall with his clothes dusted in chipped paint, oblivious of the old hunter snoring softly in the armchair across the room, of his brother still passed out at the dining table, or the archangel standing at the door.

Michael’s eyes pass over each of them and he pushes his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. His head tilts to the side when he lets himself look to Adam.

The fringes of pain have almost sunk completely beneath the surface, retreated to the cocoon of his soul and the scars Castiel made to seal them in.

Michael reappears beside the couch. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Adam’s forehead, his body fallen into another healing sleep. The knot in Michael’s chest loosens slightly when his fingers push Adam’s hair back from his eyes; it was getting long again. Adam was usually so impatient to cut his hair.

“Michael.”

Michael stiffens. He doesn’t like the feeling that he’s been caught where he shouldn’t be.

This was his home. This was….

Castiel waits, hovering a respectful distance by Bobby’s armchair. Michael watches Adam sleep, stirring through a dream where clouds are gathering over the sea and he resists the whim to reach in and push them back.

“I know,” Michael eventually murmurs, straightening, and forces down his disappointment, the urgent, desperate need threatening to choke him if he doesn’t get to pull Adam to himself, to feel Adam breathe, safe, warm, and steady against his skin.

He saw the same thing in Castiel during the Apocalypse: the irrational drive to protect and linger in the heat of Dean’s soul. It was there in Stull Cemetery when Michael first saw them, although there was already a curl of betrayal within the desire, too, dark and ashen flecked in the glory of Castiel's grace.

There’s a story there that nobody has yet to tell him.

Michael does know that angels were born to war, to praise, and adore. Without a welcome focus for that purpose, Michael knows it could choke them – he waged a war on the Earth because Dad was absent to correct his last standing orders and Michael’s come far enough to think that he was grasping for direction. He’d been lonely among his changed and estranged kin, and desperate to see God, to be righteous and certain in his purpose once again. Surely Dad had only left because he was disappointed in them? So, if Michael righted things, Dad’s shame would be absolved and he would return.

Except Dad never came home to Heaven.

Now Michael is anxious it’s going to happen again, but for Castiel it’s already set in. Michael can see it like coal in the throat of his vessel, dark smoke winding as thick as vines from the heart of his grace and he doesn’t think Castiel even realises.

But Castiel is not like Michael; he counts the dead. He will adore his friends, he will praise the redevelopment of their kin in Heaven, and he’ll be glad. He’ll believe it’s enough. He’ll ensure it is and he’ll be no less powerful.

Castiel is already more than he was, but he’ll still be less than he could have been.

Michael has mourned for that.

Castiel knows faith by the plight and triumphs of his family, but Michael thinks it’s been a while since he affirmed any of it for himself.

Castiel fought for the world and he got the promotion.

Michael fought to _end_ the world and, at the end of their twisted road, was awarded the happy ending.

So, Michael pities his brother and doesn’t lash out at being called away from his new home. Castiel was supposed to be the one with the two bedroom cottage in the country and steadfast companion who dragged him to bed every night.

Whenever Michael thinks on it, he doesn’t understand why Castiel isn’t angry; in fact, he’s kind. On some days, Michael sees that Dean is angry enough for the both of them, his soul flashing with hurt (yearning) and frustration each time Castiel easily takes his leave. Adam’s brother was just too slow to understand.

Michael’s fingers hover by Adam’s temple. Nothing crackles or recoils beneath Adam’s skin at his closeness, but he doesn’t dare reach out with his grace yet; not after the way Adam had thrown himself off the bed, then fought like a man staring death in the face. He’d been terrified and Michael hasn’t struggled with this much regret in so long, he doesn’t know what to do.

But apparently Dean does, so Michael will listen.

Castiel steps lightly, drawing closer, and Michael sinks to his knees, edge of the blanket wringing between his fingers as he watches Adam dream now in broken images of Windom. It’s a deep sleep, his slow, even breaths tickling Michael’s knuckles. He imagines Adam blinking slowly awake with his forehead against Michael’s, the slow, warm slide of his cheek as he moves to rest his head on the angel’s shoulder and fall asleep again. Michael just wants to hold him. He’s so close, he wants it badly enough that he sees it playing out in his mind’s eye and he can’t believe he isn’t already doing it.

The only reason he doesn’t take Adam’s shoulder, crush him against his chest, is his scars. It’s not a risk worth tempting, because if they tore... it would be kinder to kill him.

Michael trusts Castiel would pry him away without hesitation. Castiel is not afraid of him anymore and, on most days, this is a good thing.

Even so, Michael’s having trouble working through reason when he’s gone these few days without Adam’s conceited smirk or fond exasperation that always, inevitably, melted into indulgent affection (even if it was barbed with sarcasm).

He worries it won’t be as inevitable when Adam opens his eyes again.

“… Come with me,” Castiel offers.

“Where?” Michael asks, because they both know there is only so far he could follow Castiel.

Castiel looks to the window and the summer rain-clouds.

“Let’s fly.”

Michael considers it and, after a long beat, nods. He sees the glance Castiel spares for Dean, but he says nothing and gathers his wings, following his brother to the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

“Did you consider sending him back?” Castiel asks later that afternoon as Dean is pulling one of the pears from the grove in the backyard.

Dean glances at the dark clouds when the wind begins to pick up. The rain is going to start again soon.

“May have crossed my mind,” Dean confesses, watching Castiel consider the pear hanging at his shoulder. It comes free with a healthy _snap_ , jostling rain from the leaves and branches.

When Castiel holds it out to him, there’s water beaded in his hair, on his skin. One raindrop runs from his temple to his jaw and for a long moment, Dean forgets about the fruit.

The moment passes.

Their fingers barely brush when Dean takes the pear, shoving it in his jacket pockets.

“And?”

Dean looks between the branches. Bobby loved this stuff and he was going to make it up to the hunter when he woke up.

“It would probably be a bad idea right away, but… I can’t stop thinking about what it means for the _other_ him. Where’s the other Adam?”

Castiel sighs, wearily.

“I don’t have the answer, Dean. I can tell you that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t send Adam back to the time where he belongs.”

Dean frowns at him, temporarily abandoning his reach for a ripe target he’d spotted closer to the trunk.

“What? Why?”

Castiel shakes his head, eyebrow raised in a helpless shrug like it’s beyond his understanding as well.

“When I touched his soul, it was already… crawling. Or being dragged. I can’t displace him because Adam is already on his way somewhere else.”

Dean stares at him, horrified.

“Well, do something, Cas! What if Lucifer’s pulling him back down?”

Castiel shakes his head again. _I don’t have the answer._

“I can’t help him. I don’t know how, and affairs in Heaven—”

This is the most Dean has seen of Castiel in the last three months and he does not want to hear about the angel’s day job.

“Figure it out!” he almost shouts and points in a random skyward direction. “Tell Mike, he’d help you.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, quietly, “What if this is the way it’s supposed to be? He doesn’t _belong_ here.”

Dean’s lip curls down into a scowl.

“He belongs with us, Cas.”

“What if your true brother returns once he’s gone?”

Dean digs his heel in the soft soil and grinds his jaw. He has an idea now how Castiel feels when Dean pushed unknowable questions on him, but Dean was just a human, damn it. Castiel was a freaking angel; they were supposed to see further than humans, have universal intuition, or at least pretend a hell of a lot better than the rest of them.

“You don’t know that would happen.”

“I don’t,” Castiel concedes.

“Look,” Dean sighs, hands on his hips and it’s awkward when his pockets are bulging with fruit. “I want Adam back, but what if we let him go and nothing takes his place? What if we let him go and he just disappears?”

“That would be… undesirable.”

“Cas, he’s my _brother_. The universe owes us one.” Dean points accusingly at the angel. “Let’s not even get into your brother and what’ll happen if he loses Adam.”

Castiel deadpans, staring off into the distance as they both consider the potential fall-out with Michael. The guy had a lot of power, but little need or inclination to exercise it lately. Dean doesn’t want to see the day that changes.

“That would be _highly_ undesirable,” Castiel says.

Dean rips a few leaves from the pear tree and rolls them between his palms.

Castiel is pensively tracing the lines of the leaves on the branches when Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye. The angel’s soft, familiar frown annoys him and he imagines himself smoothing it out with his thumb, even while he wonders what Castiel’s thinking.

He clenches his hands over his pockets instead.

“So, that’s it. You guys figure out a way to lock Adam down because he’s staying.”

-*-

It’s early evening the next time they’re all awake and Adam’s strong enough to push himself to sit. There’s a lot of noise coming from the kitchen, cupboards clicking open and shut, the hum of the fridge door swinging wide, and Adam can smell tomatoes in the air.

A man on the seasoned side of middle age is sitting in an armchair by the windows and reading by a lamp that’s providing the only light in the lounge. His face is creased, bearded lip curled in concentration with his cap pulled low over his eyes. The book in his lap is thick and weathered.

Adam doesn’t recognise him, but there’s no instinctive alarm or the sense of caution he always feels with strangers, so maybe he knew this guy after all.

The man looks up from his book, hand dropping from his chin. He smiles, small and careful, just a quirk of the mouth, but it looks honest and Adam finds himself sort of smiling in his own greeting. He quickly feels sheepish and just nods.

“How you feeling, Princess?” the man asks, voice a little watery.

‘Princess’?

Adam blinks, pushing the blanket around on his knees.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“Bobby,” the man nods back. “You sleep all right?”

Adam glances around the room, then back at the kitchen when a kettle starts whistling and he can hear someone distinctly cursing.

“You in there?” Bobby prompts, peering at him curiously.

“Yeah,” Adam says, quickly, “Yeah, I’m… fine.”

The way Bobby’s looking at him makes Adam think he may have missed something big, but something on the wall separating the lounge from the kitchen catches his eye.

A line of photographs: grapes and vineyards, from what Adam can see by the low light, and it reminds him of the set his Mom used to hang in the corridor between their bedrooms.

This is not Adam’s house.

“Where are we? Whose house did I crash in?” Adam asks.

Bobby clears his throat, shifting awkwardly in his chair as though such a simple question was suddenly the wrong thing to say.

“Well, uh… what’s the last thing you remember?”

Adam looks back to the kitchen, remembers slumping to the table. He remembers pizza boxes and beer. He turns back to Bobby.

“I passed out, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, man, I’m not usually such a lightweight. I don’t even know whose house I’m in, but thanks for your couch. My mom’s probably freaking out wondering where I am.” He smiles, apologetically, and starts pushing to his feet.

He doesn’t even recognise the clothes he’s sleeping in and he feels worse for having to have borrowed some other guy’s threads, but they fit him pretty damn perfectly. He pats himself down, but he has no pockets and he can’t see his bag or keys anywhere in the lounge.

“You seen my phone? It’s small, black, Nokia….”

The guy, Bobby, looks pretty glum.

“Goddamn that featherhead. Went back too far,” Bobby curses under his breath.

Adam strains his ear.

“Sorry, what?”

“Dean!” Bobby calls, a pinch of exasperation in his voice.

Another man rounds the wall from the kitchen, the source of all that noise. He looks like he’s in mid or late thirties. He’s tall, stocky, and good looking in that smooth chiselled way that Adam expected to see on city billboards. The sense of familiarity is stronger when the new guy’s green eyes flicker between Bobby and Adam.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Dean says, looking pleased, but Adam catches the flash of guilt that passes over Dean’s eyes before he smiles. Suspicious. “How you feeling?”

“Good,” Adam answers automatically, “You?”

Dean blinks, surprised, and his mouth shrugs.

“Peachy. Hope you like tomato soup. It’s from a can, but I threw some bread in, so tonight we’re eating gourmet.”

Adam frowns, unable to kick the sense of déjà vu.

“Is this your place?” Adam asks.

The loose nonchalance evaporates from Dean’s expression. The guy looks to Bobby with a silent question, eyes narrowed in a frown, and Bobby sighs.

“He was talking about his Mom,” Bobby says. “Cas could have sealed too far.”

Dean’s mouth has pursed in a firm line and his eyes are serious when he looks back to Adam.

“Adam, do you know who I am?”

Adam looks between them and the déjà vu is really confusing the simultaneous sense that he’s at least two pages behind.

“Uh… Dean. Right?” Adam glances at Bobby for confirmation. “Was that right?”

Dean groans, drags a hand down his face, fingers scraping the lines of his mouth before he sighs. He crosses the threshold into the lounge with the weight of someone carrying bad news and Adam tenses when Dean seats himself on the couch’s arm, hand propped on his knee.

“Adam, buddy. There’s – “ Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “This sucks. What year is it?”

“Two thousand and nine.”

“It’s twenty fourteen,” Dean replies without missing a beat.

Adam blinks. He looks at Bobby’s wary face and back to Dean’s serious look, not to be argued with. He blinks again.

“What?”

He didn’t understand the joke yet, but he’s sure it’ll be hilarious when they get to the punch line.

“Here.” Bobby pushes to his feet and shuffles into the front foyer to a line of jackets hanging from the wall in the dark. He comes back with an unfamiliar wallet, leafing through the cards and holds out what looks like a driver’s license.

With Adam’s photo.

Adam grabs it. That’s his photo all right, and it’s not by much, but damn, he looks… older: the lines in his face longer, sharper. Must have been the lighting at the DMV. The expiry date says ‘2016’, what the….?

“Twenty fourteen?” he blurts and Dean shrugs, nodding. Adam looks at the license. “Who the hell is ‘Adam Remington’?”

“That’s you,” Bobby supplies unhelpfully.

Adam glares at the man because he has no idea what the hell is going on here and he does _not_ like that floundering twist in his gut.

“My name’s Adam Milligan and I’m nineteen, not –”

“You turned twenty-four last month,” Dean says.

Adam is silent for a moment and looks between the two men wearing the same serious, almost apologetic expression. It’s starting to make him mad.

“Did Josh put you up to this? Son of a bitch, I’m going to kick his ass, he knows I’ve got finals next week and I’m not in the fucking mood.” Adam goes to stand and makes a surprised noise when his legs don’t quite hold. He flops right back down onto the couch. “What the hell?”

Dean sighs.

“Adam, you’ve gotta rest. You just came out of a really bad….”

Adam’s eyes narrow at him.

“Really bad what? I’m keeping this license, by the way.”

Dean and Bobby look at each other and Dean spreads his hands in a shrug. Bobby quirks an eyebrow beneath his cap, as though saying, _why not_?

“You’ve had a rough couple of days, but before you decide to do anything stupid, there’s a few important things you need to know,” Dean says.

Adam rolls his eyes. Dean gets the hint to continue when Adam nods expectantly and Dean looks about to when they hear a key turning in the front door.

Adam backs up on the couch when one of the tallest guys Adam’s ever seen rushes in, jacket dark with rain, and almost slams the door behind him. He heads straight for Dean. This guy is also ridiculously good looking, lean with chin-length dark hair, and he does not look happy.

“Dude, you were supposed to call me back,” the guy accuses angrily.

Dean groans under his breath and steps up to meet him. Adam wonders if Dean could take him; Dean was big, but this new guy was… huge.

“Sammy, not now,” Dean says, tightly.

 _Sammy_. Why did that almost sound familiar?

“What’s going on?” The new guy, Sammy, looks between them, seeming a little less angry. When he sets eyes on Adam they take on a different kind of anger: protective and with such a rush of compassion that Adam subconsciously releases his grip on the cushion, despite the guy’s towering size. The man wasn’t only tall, but he filled out that frame with lean muscle; he was pretty imposing. Thank God he looked so concerned.

“You okay? Dean wouldn’t explain what happened with Michael over the phone—“

Bobby backhands Sammy in the chest as Dean smothers what looks like the impulse to strangle his giant friend’s neck.

“Put a freaking lid on it,” Dean snaps in an over-dramatic hush as though Adam wouldn’t hear him at that righteous volume. “He can’t remember.”

Adam watches the dark looks Sammy and Dean exchange with growing suspicion.

“Who’s Michael?” Adam asks and straightens taller on the couch as something else occurs to him. “Actually, I don’t think I got an answer to my first basic question about _who_ you all are and _where the hell I am._ ”

Sammy stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Oh, not him, too. His expression turns incredulous and he looks at Dean.

“Is he serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

Sammy’s face turns deeply sympathetic. “Oh, Adam.”

And then the giant pushes past the other two men and Adam startles when he sits beside him on the couch.

“Whoa, whoa! Hands!” Adam pulls back because it was _way_ too early in the relationship to be holding hands and exchanging valentines.

Sammy sits back on his side of the couch with a considerate nod, seeming almost professional, and holds a hand to his chest.

“My name’s Sam. I’m your brother.”

“… What?”

Adam stares, for the second time, stunned at the curve balls being brought that evening. Didn’t these things come in threes?

Sam gestures again to himself, then the other two men.

“I’m Sam Winchester and this is Dean. We’re your brothers, John’s sons. His other sons.”

Prank or no, Joshy best friend or no, that was too much.

Adam glares at Bobby.

“And who are you, the monkey’s uncle?”

“Hey,” Dean growls in clear warning, but Bobby was pretty unmoved, eyebrows raising under his cap like he was amused.

“Hey yourself,” Adam grits out, “I don’t know who the hell you guys are, but turn off the cameras, tell Josh he can have his money back. I’m going home.”

“Adam.” Sam makes an abortive gesture like he was considering reaching for Adam’s shoulder. “Please, hear us out.”

“John didn’t have any other sons.” Adam glares at him.

Sam sighs, nodding, and glances at Dean like he’s looking for confirmation or maybe support.

“Yeah, well, we didn’t think he had any other kids, either. But then we found you when you were nineteen and we went through nine rounds of ‘this is your life’. Trust me. We’re your brothers.”

“Prove it,” Adam says, not missing a beat.

“He took you to baseball games on your birthday. He took you fishing. He never wore cologne. Dad had a scar right here.” Dean gestures across his jaw, down a short line of his throat. “It was covered by his beard most of the time, from a hunting accident when Sam and I were young.”

Adam remembers the scar, saw it when John would visit that handful of times and draw Adam in for a hug. He was always clean-shaven.

“He wore aftershave,” Adam tells them.

Dean, Sam and Bobby exchange a funny look, impressed and bemused.

“Figures. He had a lady to impress,” Bobby says and Adam bristles.

“Hey, that lady is my _mom_. Watch your mouth.”

Something changes in the air of the room and the three other men almost draw in to themselves. It’s the same doomy reluctance Dean had on his shoulders when he tried to convince Adam that it was 2014.

“Adam—” Dean starts, but Sam interrupts, hushed and reluctant.

“Dean, do we have to? Tonight? I mean, he just—”

“He wants to call her, Sam,” Dean says, as though that tells the story.

“Why can’t I call my mom?” Adam asks, clipped because he’s getting pretty damn tired of their cryptic remarks between the lines.

This time it’s Bobby who takes the mantle, easing himself down into the closer armchair by the couch with a small noise of effort. It looks like the problem’s in his hip. Adam resists the impulse to reach out and help the guy; he doesn’t even know him.

Bobby sets his cane aside, folds his hands on his knee and Adam’s starting to feel nervous at the length of time he’s taking to choose his words.

“Don’t you make any fucking jokes about my mom. Bung hip or not, I will end you, old man,” Adam promises.

Bobby’s mouth wrings sympathetically and Adam’s stomach drops out.

 _Oh God, what?_

“Adam, I’m sorry to have to tell you, son, but—your mother. She passed when you were nineteen.”

Adam charges off the couch, shoves past Dean when the guy reaches for him and fights the weakness in his muscles to keep standing.

“Screw you guys,” Adam throws over his shoulder, chest tight with rage and a tight fear that he can’t explain. The adrenalin fuels him to move faster than Dean, than Sam the giant, and he grabs the first coat off the rack, yanks the front door open and storms out into the evening rain barefoot.

They’re calling after him, there’s water in his eyes and wind howling in his ears as he all but runs down the stone path. He has no idea where he is, where he’s going, but he has that fake ID and he’s not going to wait around to hear more crap against his life and his mother.

His _mother_. How the fuck could they say that?

There are a few lights in the distance, but no street lamps and, from what Adam can tell, the compacted dirt he steps onto is the road.

The problem with running in the rain, in a pitch black night, is that even with shoes it’s precarious. Without shoes and with unreliable muscles (what the hell had he drunk?), Adam takes two steps, sinks to his ankles in the mud and falls over with the inertia of his own weight.

“Adam!” he hears Dean shouting, like he’s used to barking orders and he expects that Adam will turn tail and go back.

He tries to pull himself from the muck and startles at the sudden hands on his shoulders, lifting him up and effortlessly out of the road.

It’s not Dean. It’s not Sam or Bobby.

The guy who steadies Adam on his feet is as tall as Dean, but with hair that looks almost black in the rain, streaming down into his eyes. It’s too dark to see more from the dim light of the house and Adam thinks it’s crazy that he should find the strength, the grip of this guy and the surprising heat of his palms, familiar.

Adam reaches for the hands on his shoulders and Dean rounds the corner.

“Adam!”

Adam stumbles, the hands on his shoulders abruptly gone and he looks back, confused, discovering himself alone on the muddy road. There was no way he had imagined that.

“C’mon, dude, get out of the rain,” Dean is saying as he reaches Adam’s side, boots squelching through the mud. He squints through the rain at Adam, who feels just a little bit bad that Dean’s as drenched as he now is.

Adam searches Dean’s face, feeling the cold of the rain starting to seep in.

“Why would you guys say all that stuff? You think it’s funny to tell somebody his mom’s _dead_?”

Dean looks down, rain streaming down the lines of his eyes and nose. He glances back at the house hesitantly.

“Our mom’s dead, too. I was four, Sammy was six months old. House fire.”

 _Fuck_. The rain tastes cold and clean at the corners of his mouth. Adam searches Dean’s face and hopes the guarded, almost angry look isn’t an act (because if it is, it’s a damn good one).

“I’m sorry,” he says, eventually.

Dean nods quickly like he doesn’t want to dwell too long on what he’s accepting it for.

“Yeah. I’m sorry about your mom, too.”

Dean claps a hand at Adam’s shoulder.

“… Is she really dead?” Adam asks.

Dean doesn’t nod, he doesn’t say he’s sorry, but the dim light of the house throws the shadows of his grim expression in a way that Adam understands. He swallows the thick grief that springs to his throat, tries again when it swells, but it breaks with a curse and a fierce sting behind his eyes.

“Fuck,” he snarls, covers his face with his hands, doesn’t even consider that it won’t matter in the dark and the rain. “How—“ He takes a breath when his throat closes. “How did it happen? Was I there?”

Dean pauses and Adam’s surprisingly grateful for his answer.

“You know, why don’t we get back inside? We can talk about that later.”

Adam finds himself mumbling some kind of agreement and numbly follows Dean back into the house, trailing mud on the steps. Sam throws thick, dark towels over both of them as soon as the door’s shut.

“Dude, don’t ever run off like that again. Especially in the storm. You’re probably one of the tallest things around for miles and this place gets a lot of lightning,” Sam says and his hand lingers like he’s fighting the urge to ruffle the towel in Adam’s hair. He steps away, eventually, and Adam towels the rain from his face.

“I’ll walk with _you_ next time,” Adam says, not really feeling the humour.

His face already feels puffy, Dean’s respectfully looking back to the kitchen as though he’s remembered he was attempting to put together something of a meal, but Sam’s hands are on his hips and he’s watching Adam as if expecting him to break and sob into the circle of his big brother’s arms at any moment.

Adam clears his throat, finds it still tight, and glances at Bobby watching them from the armchair by the couch.

“I think I should wash up or – yeah.” Adam says and starts to shuffle along before his voice can break around the lump burning in his throat.

Sam immediately points upstairs before Adam’s even hunched his shoulders down for his face-saving exit.

“Door facing you when you reach the top of the stairs. We’ll leave your clothes outside.”

Goddamn. Sam was so… helpful and eager.

“Thanks,” Adam mutters and absently regrets the mud he’s already trailing when he gets to the foot of the stairs. “Sorry. I’ll clean that up.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sam waves him off.

Adam slowly ascends the stairs, towel wrapped tightly around his shoulders to stop him from dripping as much as possible, but he’s leaving a wet, muddy trail and he’s going to have to backpedal as soon as he’s clean.

He glances over the banister when he’s almost at the top and sees Dean walking into the kitchen, towel around his neck. Sam is following, saying something urgent and hushed, but Adam doesn’t think he wants to hear anything else they might have had to say tonight.

It was the year 2014, he had _brothers_ , but his mom was dead.

Where the hell had the last five years of his life gone? What was going on?

His mom was _dead_?

That still wasn’t really processing. There were so many things he needed to know, but there was already a pinch of tension building behind his eyes. He honestly didn’t think he could take any more bad news tonight. There was a lot he was going to need to verify when he was thinking clearly again.

Sam, Dean and Bobby.

Bobby wasn’t so bad; he actually seemed like the steadiest of the three. Dean had run after him in the rain and Sam had towels for them like an overgrown mother hen. If he had to have brothers, he supposes he could have done worse.

-*-

“Dean,” Sam is saying as he stands by the stove and completely forgets to stir the pot.

He’s staring at Dean with that look bordering on broken-hearted because he’s worried Dean’s about to do something devastating and stupid and he’s not going to let Sam stop him.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean pushes the salt back in its cupboard and looks in further for the pepper. Weren’t those two things that were always supposed to stay together?

“You know, Sam, it occurred to me this could be a blessing in disguise.”

“He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember _anything_ of the last five years; I’ve been there. I know what that’s like. Dean, we’ve got to tell him.”

Dean’s jaw pulls tight and he lets Sam see how indifferent he feels about it, handing over the pepper.

“Tell him what?”

Sam gestures with the pepper grinder like the answer’s frustratingly laid out before them.

“Well, I noticed you didn’t mention anything about what we do. _How_ we met him. When are you planning on telling him?”

“Sammy, if you had a chance to do over with Jessica: sunshine and lollipops and the boogie monster was only a figment that got shafted before you were any wiser, would you want that life?”

Sam snorted an incredulous laugh.

“No. Because I don’t _get_ that life, I don’t get a do over –“

“Ignorance could be bliss,” Dean says.

“But it’s a _lie_ , Dean.” Sam glares at him. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this, we’ve been here before! We fight so that everybody _else_ can have normal, but the monsters hunt _us_ down, eat us alive and drag us to _Hell_. We can’t let him leave his head in the sand.”

Dean’s mouth shrugs.

“You’re forgetting Adam’s the one with a day job and the scariest things in these parts are weeds and frost. He could do this.”

“He should at least _know_. He has to protect himself. There are still things looking for us every day,” Sam says meaningfully and Dean knows exactly what Sam is thinking of.

Dean wants to think that Sam could be wrong this time. He looks into the cupboard again.

“This is a Uni Ville. We’re ninety minutes from the nearest town with a name. He’s got a new identity and a life that hasn’t exploded in the last nine months.”

“What about his mom? He’ll go looking for answers.”

“Both Adam and his mom are officially missing persons; that story is closed.”

“So, how do we know she died? How the hell are you going to explain the last five missing years?”

Sam is being completely useless at the stove, so Dean grabs the pepper and bumps his brother aside.

“Taxes.”

“Taxes?” Sam’s voice is not convinced.

“Death and taxes. They had to run because of some bad people in their life, his mom got sick on the road and Adam called Dad. The rest is history. Without the ghoulish flavour.”

“So, where is she buried?”

“He cremated her. Scattered her ashes somewhere with a view. And he fell off the roof trying to fix a tile yesterday; if he’s lucky, the amnesia’s only temporary.”

“You’ve really thought about this, huh?” Sam doesn’t sound so pleased about his brother’s accomplishment.

Dean grins smugly because Sam sounds as though he’s at the door of defeat.

“Okay,” Sam sighs. “Even if your story holds up, aren’t you forgetting something important?”

Dean looks up from stirring the pot to consider it, staring at their reflection in the window.

“The _archangel_ in the room?” Sam prompts.

Dean thinks about it. Then he thinks about it some more.

“… Dean?” Sam presses and that worried note is back in his voice. “Dean, you _can’t_ keep Michael out of this.”

Dean purses his mouth thoughtfully and arches an eyebrow at his brother to test how well Sam is receiving his brainwave. Sam looks torn between horrified and fearful, probably for _Dean’s_ welfare, but he is definitely _not_ on Radio Dean tonight.

“Dean, trust me, that’s something out of your control. Everything else about your story holds water, but where does Michael fit in? He’s not going to leave Adam alone.”

“He already left,” Dean says.

Sam stops, frowning.

“He did?”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugs it off, like it was an easy feat. “He’s not good for Adam right now. We told him. He understood. He left.”

Sam opens his mouth, a confused sound croaking out. He shakes his head, frowning helplessly like he still doesn’t understand what Dean couldn’t have made plainer.

“He understood? Really? And he… left. What? Just like that?”

“Don’t look so disappointed.”

“But it’s _Michael_ , he – I mean, he…. Really? He just left? He’s coming back, right?”

“My bet is he already has, he’s just not showing his face.” Dean looks knowingly up at the ceiling like the angels were in the web of cracks and the corners.

Sam makes another annoying noise that’s somewhere between a sigh and huff that sounds like _well, I’m trying to warn you_. The ladle clatters gently against the pot rim as Dean drops it and rounds on his brother.

“Look, I don’t have all the answers, all right? I don’t know if it’d work, but shouldn’t we give him a chance? After what Cas did, I don’t think those memories are coming back.”

“If that’s true, Michael will be _pissed._ ”

Dean forgets his gentle appeal, eyes narrowing.

“If Mike’s worth his salt, he’ll buck up and get through it. Or he can do what angels do best and disappear, and Adam still gets his sunny life.”

Sam is quiet for a tense moment.

“You know, I’m sure Cas would come by more often if things in Heaven weren’t so—“

“Why are we talking about Cas?” Dean cuts his brother off sharply before Sam can take that any further. “We’re talking about Adam and his stupid angel. Are you in or out?”

Sam throws up a hand in defeat; it slaps down heavily to the counter and bears his weight.

“You know me. I’m always in.” Sam watches Dean flick the heat off the stove and transfer the pot to another coil. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Adam was oblivious and Michael was still around. You know? He’d be safe.”

Dean grunts.

“There’s that.”

“So, are we telling Adam about Michael or not?”

It takes a long moment for Dean to answer.

“Hey, you said it: Michael will turn up eventually. He can explain himself when he gets here.”

“You’re a jerk, you know that?” Sam sighs, quietly.

“I’m holding down the fort, bitch, what’s your excuse?”

“I’m the world’s tallest Jiminy,” Sam says, drolly, and he smiles when Dean punches him lightly in the shoulder as if to say, _thanks, man._

Things settle after that, Sam leaning on the counter beside him, comfortable quiet only broken by the occasional murmur from Bobby in the other room on his cell. Dean had no idea who he was talking to, but he had a feeling Bobby was calling in help to take over the job they’d detoured from when they got Michael’s call.

Bobby never let them down and it’s been too long since Sam and Dean were in the same room together; just the two of them. Dean steals a glance at his brother while he stirs the pot and Sam’s looking up and around the neat space of the kitchen with its small wooden cabinets and warm yellow walls.

“It’s a nice house.” He smiles at Dean. “It’s weird being here, you know? Adam has a _house._ ”

Dean can admit: it does feel weird that any of them should own property. Bobby had entered their lives already in possession of his salvage yard, so that was different. It only feels weird that one of his brothers lives with the same roof constantly over his head because he’s thinking of Adam like them. The kid didn’t have their life. He needed four walls, a stove, a bed, a mantle with memories, and maybe a favourite corner to rest in.

“The Impala’s our home because of Dad. Adam didn’t have that. He’s not like us.”

-*-

Hair still dripping wet from the shower, Adam snuck across the hall in the fresh clothes left at the bathroom door. True to his expectation, Sam already cleaned the muddy trail Adam left behind. He could still hear their voices downstairs and, unless these were the sort of people who sat around in rooms with the lights off, he made the safe assumption that he was the only one on the second floor.

There are only two other doors.

Shutting the first door behind him, Adam fumbles for the ancient light switch and finds himself in a bedroom. There’s an unmade queen bed, paintings on the walls, desk by the window and another door that proves to house a small ensuite of a toilet, shower stall and sink.

Adam grabs the laptop sitting on the desk. He startles when it wakes from its snooze with a whir of surprise and Adam finds himself staring at a desktop picture of his mother.

It’s not even the best picture, but something that looked like it had been snapped at somebody else’s party where the light was dim, her hair was mussed, and her skin shone in a way Adam knew she would have laughed at, but she was smiling. She was enjoying herself.

This must have been his computer. There wasn’t any reason for anybody else to have her picture.

Adam’s fingers linger on the screen. He doesn’t even remember this picture.

God, he missed her so much already.

Then he remembers why he was sneaking around in the first place and pulls up a web browser.

A quick search under his mother’s name pulls up a news bulletin for missing persons with pictures of both himself and his mother. Adam checks the date and finds it was posted five years ago just after his nineteenth birthday.

There are links in his search results to online entries his mother left for friends, greetings, condolences, but nothing after the missing person’s entry.

He checks the date in the corner taskbar of the screen and discovers it’s August twenty-first, 2014. He checks web news articles and global time stamps, but they all confirm the same thing: it’s 2014.

How the hell did this happen?

Searching under his own name brings up more results: class and club sign-up lists from his later years in high school, an online newspaper article about the time he won the track meet at the athletic competition alongside the other winners of the day, _Facebook_ entries with photos of himself and friends, events he’s responded to, and comments he’d spammed.

Nothing later than the missing person’s entry.

It’s as though he and his mother just dropped off the face of the Earth.

And Adam had resurfaced here, wherever here was.

Adam may not have been a computer science major, but he has enough faith in technology that there was a random application out there that could tell him where he was.

Two minutes later there’s a crosshair whirring across a black and cyan image of the world. A decreasing counter promises Adam it’s going to zero in on his location within the next forty seconds and it looks like the sort of thing a fake spy would use.

The counter and crosshair stall for a moment and he sees the internet signal has dropped out, but after a few seconds, it comes back to life. He’s unsurprised to find himself still in the United States, but when the image refreshes, zooming in on the South-West Coast, the application freezes again. Adam waits, smacks the monitor along helpfully, but then the floorboards creak and he closes everything down, snaps the laptop shut and ducks behind the door.

This was crazy. These guys said they were his family and they were nothing but warm… but Adam didn’t know them. He only had their word.

After a minute of holding his breath, nothing comes through the door. Peeking out, the hall and landing are empty, but there’s still that other room to explore.

It’s empty when he ducks in, shutting the door behind him again, and where the other room was plainly for sleeping, this was clearly a study.

There’s a fireplace in the corner suggesting it may have once been a bedroom, but now there’s a metal grate over it and a large desk designed to wrap around two walls. Two large monitors are suspended side by side over what looks like an impressive set-up, but Adam’s more interested in the papers stacked by the keyboard and the tall filing cabinet.

Adam had really hoped it wasn’t true. It was still possible this entire house was an impressively detailed set piece to buy him into the story his apparent brothers downstairs had sold (he still couldn’t justify a solid reason why it could be worth it), but every paper has a timestamp of 2014 and the name ‘Adam Remington’.

And apparently he, Adam Remington, had a utilities bill due in a week.

He was going to have to ask what was with the new identity.

He wonders what he does to pay for everything, but the filing cabinet apparently needs a key and all he can see are paper and stationery on the desk. Goddamn prudent security, what the hell was everyday him so guarded about?

He’s getting more nervous every second that passes and he has to leave his back to the door. He’s straining his ear for the creak of someone on the wooden steps or turning the loose, squeaky doorknob.

While searching through a tub of paper clips, palms sweating in the rush to stay undiscovered, the hairs stand on the back of his neck.

He looks over his shoulder. The study is empty, but then he sees the row of photos along the back wall.

His mom is front and centre; it’s the same photo on the laptop from the bedroom.

On the right is a picture of Sam and Dean on the hood of a black, late 60s Impala before a harvested field: it looks like early afternoon and they’re huddled close, bottles of beer in hand. Dean’s frowning and Sam looks concerned, mid-conversation of something serious. A second photo hangs beside it, clearly the same moment, but closer up. The concern is gone, Dean’s cracked a wry grin, looking towards something ahead, and Sam’s eyes are shut, laughing.

On the left of his mother was another set of pictures. Adam recognises himself sitting cross-legged on the same Impala’s trunk. He’s studying something small and long in his hands. There’s a man Adam doesn’t recognise around his brothers’ age: dark hair, denim and brown leather, leaning against the Impala’s back. He’s also peering at the thing in Adam’s hands, but Adam’s more attentive to the way his photo self is letting the guy lean flush against his side. The second photo has a tighter frame, close enough for Adam to see the calm, relieved look in his photo self’s face as he slouches into the other guy’s space. The guy is smiling as though he knows just what Adam’s thinking and it makes him happy.

It’s bad enough the stranger was handsome.

There really weren’t too many ways a person could misinterpret that smile – the unaware glow that came over people when they thought they’d discovered the one true secret to the rest of their lives. Adam knew he’d looked at his girlfriend the same way. He’d seen that glimmer in her eyes, too, as he held her tight and she’d giggled against his lips, but that had turned out naïve.

Apparently five years had changed Adam more than he realised and now he just felt betrayed, blind-sided by his future self.

Adam steps up to the picture, fingertips tracing against the glass. Despite everything, this was the first piece of evidence grounding him in this other place. It’s his face, but it’s not his memory. There’s an uncomfortable twist in his gut at the sense he’s peering uninvited into somebody else’s life, stealing a glance of something nobody else was supposed to see, and his eyes are drawn back to that guy beside his photo self.

Was that… Michael? Who _was_ Michael? And where the hell was he?

He jumps when the study’s single bulb flickers and that’s all it takes for Adam to drop the papers on the desk, push the stationery back and book it out of there.

Stepping lightly down the stairs, he sees Sam and Dean are in heated discussion at the far end of the kitchen, crowded around a pot on the table. They don’t see him when he reaches for the set of car keys he noticed earlier off the hook by the fridge.

Bobby’s facing the window, muttering into his cell phone, a hand on his hip. Adam just hopes the old man’s too slow to react when Adam’s halfway down the road in that truck he saw sticking out of the garage.

He’s got the driver’s license in his pocket, a wallet that’s probably soaked through, but as long as the money inside doesn’t run and bleed together, he’ll be fine. He saw plastic with his signature on it. If he hadn’t changed his spending habits in the last five years, there should be enough to get him a ticket back to Minnesota and look around for –

There’s someone standing at the truck’s driver’s side door when Adam finally finds the light to the garage.

Startled, he almost slips in the mud he’s trailed on the concrete.

“Fuck!” He recovers and grasps the pick-up’s tray to catch himself. “Who the – how many of you guys are there?”

It’s neither Bobby, his brothers, nor photo Adam’s personal space friend who’s standing there, head tilted at Adam like Adam’s the suspicious one who was skulking in the cold, unlit garage.

“Adam,” the man says in a surprisingly low, rough voice. “I’m glad to see you’re walking. And cursing.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who the hell are you?”

“… I’m Castiel.” The guy frowns, suspicion shifting to concern. “We’re acquainted.”

Adam looks the guy over from head to toe. He’s dressed like he’s just returned from the office; he must have worked in town. What sort of a name was ‘Castiel’? Mediterranean? Eurasian?

“What are you doing here?” Adam asks.

It’s Castiel’s turn to look him over. He frowns, as though he sees something worth his concern, and Adam’s hand self-consciously comes to rest over the wallet in his jacket.

“… Perhaps we should go inside?” Castiel motions to a door behind him that must have led into the house. If only Adam had known that before he snuck out the front and gotten soaked all over again.

“No, I, err.” Adam motions to the truck, keys jingling in his hand. “I was just running into town, to get a few things. You go ahead. After I’m gone.”

He mentally smacks his forehead. Way to not sound suspicious, Milligan.

Castiel’s face pinches with the look of _I know something is up and it should be down._

“I don’t think you should be driving, Adam.”

“Oh, I have a license.” Adam presses himself against the pick-up’s side. He considers sliding towards the driver’s door, but the other guy is directly in Adam’s path and he doesn’t look inclined to move.

“I believe you should not be driving,” Castiel says again, firmly, like Adam hadn’t heard him the first time.

“And I’m not drunk.” Adam glances over his shoulder, expecting to see Sam or Dean round the corner at any moment. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go—“

Castiel looks from the truck, back to Adam, and his mouth purses indecisively.

“I will consult your brothers.”

And then the guy _vanishes_ into thin air. Thin air.

Adam stares at the empty spot, slack-jawed, and whirls to look around the empty garage.

What the fucking fuck….?

Wait, wait, he had an empty garage and… that meant he could… take the truck. Just take the truck, Adam….

 _The fuck vanishing dudes?_

 _Take the truck_ , the mental order bubbles above his shock and he grasps the door handle loosely, old door hinge swinging with a rusty whine. He shakes his head of the uneven way the world tilts when he slides into the driver’s seat. His hands are trembling as he fumbles with the keys and a part of him recognises the symptom of shock, thinks that getting behind a wheel in the rain might just be a bad idea, but there’s something wrong with this house, these people and _dudes who vanish into thin air._

Adam is not sticking around for that.

The truck roars out of the garage, taking the reversed turn just a little too fast in the sliding mud and he almost runs Sam over when he rounds the corner from the garage.

 _Fuck._

Sam jumps back and they exchange a look of disbelief because _shit, that was a close call_ , but then Sam straightens, long hair sticking wet to his face, Dean runs through the front door, and Adam remembers why he stole the truck to begin with.

The clutch is sticky, but it roars from first through to second fast enough for Adam to take off down the road before Sam can reach the truck. He grimaces through the guilt of the mud no doubt sprayed in their direction when the back wheel spins out.

He floors the pedal.

The road is bumpy and he has to correct more than he’d anticipated for the way the truck slides in the thick mud. He bounces in his seat, jarred with a groan, when the road unexpectedly dips, but then he’s climbing the dark hill to those faint, distant lights through the rain. He checks his rear-view mirror and there are no car lights, nobody’s chasing him.

He risks a small breath of giddy relief and wrings his hands around the large, thin steering wheel.

“Turn around,” Castiel says, from the passenger seat.

Adam almost runs the truck off the road.

There’s a lot of frantic wheel-turning and shrieked curses before Adam saves them from a possible, aquaplaning death.

Castiel frowns at Adam like he’s disgruntled at his reaction, but Adam is shaking like a Goddamn leaf when he yanks the parking brake on, suspecting they’ll slide back through the grass anyway.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Adam snarls, clinging to the steering wheel. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Castiel looks over his shoulder, back towards the cottage.

“I can’t stay, but your brothers say you’re running. Why are you running?”

 _“Who the hell are you?”_ Adam shouts, gesturing wildly in the space of the cold, truck front seat.

“I’m a friend, Adam,” Castiel says, slower this time, searching Adam’s face. “I’m an ally. Please turn the truck around.”

“You disappear! Dude, you disappear – _what are you?”_

Castiel’s lips form a gentle ‘O’ of surprise and Adam doesn’t think the guy means to let his shock show.

“I – I think your brothers would like to speak to you.”

Adam backs up against the door when Castiel reaches for him, but he can’t duck away from the hand that settles on his shoulder. The world rips away under his feet and Adam reels from the heaviest anvil of déjà vu as though he was just flipped upside down and righted with an about-turn.

The falling sensation leaves bright spots fading from his vision and his ears are whistling as he finds himself on his knees on the dry floor of the cottage with a painful thump.

“Adam?” Bobby shakes his shoulder. He catches Adam as he almost tips onto his face.

“Dude. Disappears.” Adam squints up at Bobby’s face as the fog of sense memory fades and Bobby looks at something in the windows, expression falling in exasperation.

“Aw, hell.”

-*-

“Cas. I had a plan.”

“I didn’t realise you intended to obscure his involvement in the Apocalypse–“

Castiel cuts off at Dean’s angry shushing noises. Dean looks back over his shoulder towards the lounge and leads Castiel to the downstairs spare bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

“We didn’t discuss what we would seal from his memory. I went too far,” Castiel apologises.

“Cas, you’ve given him a great chance for something and _I have a plan_.”

“He’s seen me. I don’t want to wipe his memories again while he’s still healing.”

“Okay, it could be dangerous –“

“Yes. Does your plan have a contingency for this?”

Dean shrugs a shoulder.

“I’ve got my best guys working on it.”

-*-

“I’m not crazy!” Adam’s shouting as Bobby pushes him down into a chair at the dining table and Adam shoves at the hands on his shoulder. “The guy disappeared right in front of me! Then he came back – don’t give me that look!”

Bobby wrenches his face into what he hopes is something calm and understanding, but it doesn’t reduce the heat of Adam’s glare. He pats the young man’s shoulder one more time before he pulls his hands back and stifles a sigh.

“Son, just take a minute,” Bobby encourages, grateful that Sam reappears at his side at that moment with a glass of water.

“Have a drink,” Sam implores, nodding at the glass until Adam takes it, though he sets it straight down on the table.

“Sorry about the mud,” Adam mumbles, glancing at Sam’s ruined shirt. He shakes his head. “Please, guys, I’m not crazy.”

“Who’s calling you crazy? C’mon, we just want you to calm down.” Sam has his ‘soothe the victim’ voice on at max and with that sincere look of compassion, Bobby’s glad even Adam doesn’t seem able to withstand it. Adam’s shoulders sag with guilty defeat.

“Kid, you’ve got to stop running off on us. I know you got questions, so just _ask_ ,” Bobby urges, because if they had to drag Adam a third time in from the rain, Bobby would make the boy stand on the step and be hosed down.

“I just have to get back, I have to see—”

“Where, Adam?” Sam asks.

“Home. _My_ home.”

“Okay, okay,” Bobby shushes and he thinks he does a fair job of it when the youngest Winchester – Milligan – huffs and reluctantly raises the glass to his lips, though he’s trembling. “But not tonight, okay? For God’s sake, Adam, you just woke up a few hours ago.”

Adam’s taking steady gulps, he doesn’t need to nod. Bobby’s doing well. Then Sam goes and opens his big, sappy mouth again.

“You’ve been through a lot, Adam—”

Adam swallows thickly, deep frown returned, and pushes the glass away from him.

“Is anybody going to explain that to me? Why can’t I remember anything? What happened?”

“You fell off the roof,” Dean says, entering the kitchen.

Bobby steps back and Sam sits on the table’s edge by Adam’s arm as Dean and Castiel join them. Dean’s expression is set in stone and Bobby recognises that look – it was good to know that _somebody_ thought they knew what they were doing. He just hopes Dean passed the idea by Castiel so whatever he was planning still bore a lick of sense.

“What?” Adam’s frown turns confused.

“It’s an old place, you’re always doing repairs,” Sam adds, softly, like it’s not Adam’s fault that he can’t help himself.

“My guess is you were checking the tiles. They’re slate, hard to get around these parts.” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “We’ve been telling you to get an expert who knows how to do that stuff, but you’ve got a thick head.”

“You _and_ your brothers,” Bobby says and raises an eyebrow at the eldest. “If Dean took his own advice, you’d all be in much better shape.”

Dean gives him a little knowing smirk and there’s gratitude there, too, that Bobby’s playing along.

“Retrograde amnesia,” Adam murmurs, looking between them and Bobby nods. “Five years. Goddamnit.”

“I know this is hard, Adam, your life’s changed a lot, but you’re with family. We’re here to help you,” Bobby says.

“Anything you need,” Sam adds.

Bobby resists the instinct to slap Sam upside the head because Sam’s in the most difficult position to be making that offer. They didn’t even know how long Sam could stay, but Bobby also knew that Sam meant what he’d said: he’d give Adam whatever he could to help, while he was able.

Nobody tells Adam his memories could come back. Bobby’s lied enough to these boys for each other over the years. They don’t know if the scars will hold, only hope they do, for Adam’s sanity.

“So, are you really my uncle?”

Bobby realises Adam’s talking to him. Adam looks so earnestly confused, Bobby softens with pity.

“Not by blood, but he’s as good as,” Dean interrupts, before Bobby can say anything, and it makes the older hunter stir uncomfortably warm and fuzzy inside. He coughs around the feeling, makes a face when the sound catches wetly.

“I knew your daddy,” Bobby explains.

Adam looks between each of them, face dawning with understanding.

“You’re all here from my dad’s side.”

“Better late than never,” Sam shrugs with a smile and Adam nods, but he can’t quite return it. Boy just lost his mother and the life he knew all in one day, now he had these surrogate idjits to stand in, but Bobby wagered it was a hell of a lot better than nothing.

Adam’s hands knot between his knees. He raises his eyes to Castiel.

“Did I imagine it? I don’t have a bump, but… did I hit my head that hard?”

“I understand you hit your head quite hard, Adam. Things may be confusing for a while. You may also experience some soreness. You will be fine,” Castiel says and Bobby credits the angel that he doesn’t look to Dean for confirmation.

“Are you a doctor?” Adam asks.

“No,” Castiel says.

“Then why do you sound so sure?”

“Nothing’s broken,” Dean steps in, before Adam can chase the angel down that rabbit hole. “You’ve got no signs of a concussion and if you were bleeding internally, you’d be dead by now.”

“Great.” Adam sounds anything but grateful. “Good to know if something serious had actually happened, I’d be in capable hands. Do you guys live here, too?”

They all look to Dean.

Dean blinks, face blank, and Bobby can see the wheels spinning in his head.

“Your brother and I were actually passing through on a job.” Bobby gestures between himself and Dean. “I own a Salvage Yard and Dean fancies himself a mechanic.”

“Huh. Any good?”

Dean nods approvingly of Bobby’s story – it was actually true – and takes his cue.

“We specialise in the classics. Don’t ask us to touch anything fresh out of a dealer, though, we don’t hotwire computers.”

Adam makes another sound of interest. He’s buying it so far, but Bobby catches the way he looks between Dean and Castiel, the angel almost flush behind Dean’s shoulder. It was their stance they’d reflexively taken over the years so they could mutter to each other and check their stories when improvising a plan, but Bobby can see how else it could look.

“What about you?” Adam asks Castiel, checking Dean’s face for his reaction.

“I’m… a strategic liaison officer,” Castiel says.

Dean’s eyebrows rise in surprise, impressed.

“He works with the Government; thinks it makes him better than the rest of us,” Dean jokes.

Judging by Castiel’s frown at Dean’s ear, the joke is lost on him.

“I don’t think that.”

Adam cuts in, thankfully.

“So, um – which part of the Government, Castiel?”

Bless the kid’s soul, fish out of water in a room full of strangers, but he still had the instinct to mediate between Dean and the angel.

Castiel looks at Adam, face serious and empty of all expression.

“I cannot speak of it.”

Adam’s face breaks into a grin and Bobby feels some of the stress lift from his chest.

“Sounds awesome. Can we ‘not speak of it’ some other time?”

This time, Castiel does look to Dean for confirmation, but Dean is a beat late in supplying the answer.

“Perhaps. No,” Castiel amends.

“If he told you, he’d have to kill you,” Dean says and Bobby rolls his eyes.

“Way to pique his curiosity, Holmes and Watson.” Bobby shakes his head. “If you actually _were_ a spy, our country would belong to the Chinese by now.”

Adam actually laughs then and he’s looking between them, relief and amusement in his eyes. He looks last at Sam and his smile softens, relaxed.

“What about you, Sam?”

Sam only has to think about it less than a moment. He returns his brother’s smile, blinding and genuine.

“I’m… actually on sabbatical. I did lots of odd jobs before, but I studied law at Stanford.”

Adam perks up, eyes wide.

“Stanford?”

Sam shrugs with a smile and looks down at his hands playing in his lap. Bobby wonders if he’s thinking of Jessica.

“I had to drop out though; personal reasons.”

A knot of tension loosens in Bobby’s chest, hearing Sam say that. It’s the way he delivered it, modest, but confident, still smiling, that tells Bobby he’s really moving on. Finally.

He never thought he’d see the day he believed it.

“So, what do I do? We’ve got mechanics, suits, and a journeyman in the room: how am I paying for the bills?” Adam asks.

Dean and Sam exchange a look and shrug. It’s Sam that tells him.

“Well, Adam, you’re a student.”

Adam blinks at him as though that wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

“Of what?”

Dean pulls off a fair impression of looking sheepish.

“We’re not sure how it works, but you’re studying medicine and you’ve been posted out here in the country. It’s your first job. You said a lot of you guys get sent to the country towns in the first round.”

“Though not everyone gets sent to Napa.” Sam grins with a conspiratorial wink.

Adam’s face turns incredulous.

“We’re in Napa? I’m a freaking intern in wine country?”

It’s not really Napa, but that was their inside joke: this little town with its upstart vineyard was their own little wine country, so Adam had got them all into the habit of calling it ‘Napa’.

Sam and Dean exchange another look that doesn’t do any credit to their story, so Bobby clears his throat, then clears it again because, God darn it, he had to do something about that darned cold.

“You said something about ‘residency’, but honest to God, Adam, we just know you work up at the local Uni Ville clinic and they’re grateful to have you. We’re darn proud of you, boy.”

“What is an intern and residency?” Castiel murmurs to Dean, who shrugs, just as clueless.

“I’m in wine country!” Adam crows, laughing victoriously and he actually bumps fists with Sam.

Sometimes, like the present, it was clear to Bobby that John didn’t raise this boy. At least Adam wasn’t asking for high fives.

Then, just as abruptly, the elation drains from Adam’s face and he looks at them all in apprehension.

“Wait, if I can’t remember anything, I can’t practice. Shit, if I can’t practice, they’ll kick me out of the program, and – shit!”

“Hey, Adam.” Sam settles him down in his chair. “ _Hey_. Don’t panic. We don’t know anything yet; let’s not worry just for tonight, okay? We’ll take care of it in the morning. Let’s be glad it wasn’t more serious.”

Adam’s nodding and he shuts his eyes, consciously working through the effort to not freak out and Bobby thinks he manages it pretty well.

“Yeah, okay. Okay. Tomorrow. I’ll go up to town and get checked out by one of the other doctors.”

“Actually, you might be the only doctor,” Sam says, and shrugs apologetically at Adam’s horrified look.

Adam shakes his head vehemently.

“No, no, wait. I’ve got to have a supervisor. They wouldn’t let me out here on my own –“

“Maybe they’re out of town? There’s never been anyone else when we passed through,” Dean offers, but it’s apparently not what Adam wants to hear.

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost a year,” Bobby says.

“Holy fuck, then the town knows me,” Adam seethes, head falling into his hands. “Am I… am I any good?”

“You’re awesome,” Dean affirms with a superior nod.

Yeah, Bobby knows it’s the truth, but even he has trouble taking that look seriously.

Adam groans and appeals to his other brother.

“Sam?”

Bobby wonders if it’s worth his while learning something of Sam’s charm that settles the jumpiest of souls. The difference with Sam was that he more than empathised, he honestly cared, and it showed.

“You’re good at what you do, Adam, you’ve patched us up a few times, too. And you liked it out here so much, it’s why you bought the cottage.”

Castiel speaks up, hesitantly.

“If you seek another healer’s opinion, I… may know one,” he says, haltingly, but he’s looking at Dean now and there’s an entire conversation Bobby can see that burns between them as Dean’s face turns suspicious and Castiel nods, seeking his trust.

“Who?” Dean frowns, muttered barely audibly so that Bobby can hear and only because he’s standing beside him.

“My brother,” Castiel supplies, just as quietly, and Dean’s face twists in confusion.

“Mike isn’t a healer.”

“Not Michael.”

“How soon could they be here?” Adam pipes in and Castiel looks at him hesitantly.

“I will make inquiries,” Castiel says, and Dean follows him when the angel steps back out to the hall.

“… Must be a generalist,” Adam is muttering to himself when Bobby turns his attention back and the poor kid looks like he’s going to worry himself into another fever.

Bobby realises he’s waiting for something, Sam makes the mistake, too, and they look at each other when it comes to them. Adam didn’t fret over much but his career and they had gotten so used to Michael stepping in at this point, Bobby’s ashamed it took him a moment to realise it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

Adam looks up from his hands when Bobby clasps his shoulder firmly.

“Don’t you go worrying about things out of your control. Ain’t nothing you can do about it tonight, so put it out of your mind… have some of that soup your brothers worked so hard on.”

Adam’s face breaks into a weak, but grateful smile of relief. He looks at the pot at the centre of the table, resting on an oven mitt.

“Is that from a can?” Adam’s smile grows, remembering Dean’s earlier breakdown of the meal.

“We’ve got bread to dip,” Sam counters and heads for the fridge, its low hum filling the kitchen when he pulls the door open to search.

“Thanks, guys.” Adam voice is soft and he swallows, looking between them. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been passing through. That was lucky.”

Bobby’s smile twists at the corner of his mouth when Sam presents the fresh baguette, still wrapped in paper, and the brothers laugh – something about it being cold.

He’s glad because Adam was finally warming to them for being around to support him. Even if they all knew their timing had nothing to do with luck.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean flat-out refuses when he realises who Castiel wants to call.

“No. No way – we’re not even safe in the same room with him without Mike.”

Castiel sighs, conceding it with a nod.

“Then, should we call Michael?”

“No. It’s still too soon,” Dean says, immediately, shaking his head.

He wants to keep Michael as far away from this as possible and if it was for completely selfish reasons, he’d have to save that conversation for Castiel and his eye-rolling later. Not that Castiel rolled his eyes, but hanging around Michael and Adam, he was picking up some bad habits.

“… Should we say _Michael_ is the healer?” Castiel suggests and he’s looking at Dean like he has a headache.

“Cas, Mike is _not_ a healer.” It was pretty clear that Castiel was grasping at straws.

“All angels can assess the health of a vessel, Dean. Some better than others. Michael and I are astute, but we’ve already established that _I_ am not a healer-doctor.”

“Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor, Dean.”

Dean’s face twists as he considers the other possible and completely unintentional fall-out of asking Michael to take on the mantle: he really didn’t want to listen to any of Sam’s jokes about playing doctor.

Maybe Dean and Bobby could go over their contacts and see if there were any old friends in a reasonable driving distance. There weren’t many left.

They knew Adam was fine – mostly. They were just doing this for his peace of mind, so maybe they could wing this one, too.

“Can I sleep on it?” Dean eventually asks.

Castiel nods, seriously, as though the question is ridiculous.

“Of course.”

Dean ducks his head back into the kitchen and asks Bobby to join them. He’s got to keep this in check before it has the chance to get out of hand.

“Strategic liaison officer?” Bobby smirks at Castiel when he comes around the corner.

Castiel nods, raising an eyebrow.

“I saw it on Sam’s curriculum vitae. He performed this role as a college summer job and I thought it was… accurate.”

Dean blinks, momentarily side-tracked by this new piece of information.

“Has Sam been searching for jobs?”

Castiel shrugs and somehow that cocked eyebrow looks patronizing when it’s turned on Dean.

“Sam has to feed himself on the road and he _is_ an effective communicator.”

“Boy’s strategic,” Bobby pipes in with his own shrug and Dean’s safely sure that neither of them really have any idea, or care, what a ‘strategic liaison officer’ does. They should probably stop while they were ahead.

Still, he’s grateful for the breadcrumb of news, even if he had to hear it from Castiel. It’s good to know Sam was taking care of himself while he was away, and smartly, from the sound of it.

“Adam went down when he was nineteen, but legally he’s twenty-four. Either of you shared this?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head and Bobby’s mouth twists with that quizzical frown.

“No, why?”

“Okay,” Dean breathes out, points the order at the both of them, “Keep this between us. As of this second, that factoid is a nada. Non-relevant.”

Bobby snorts under his breath.

“Already figured we were selling him the story of his life to date. I just wonder where it’s left the other Adam.”

“Well, don’t,” Dean growls, because if he dwells on that, too, he might be sick.

Castiel’s frowning again in that soft, cautious way he considers things and Dean just wishes he would play ball and take direction without question for once. Wasn’t that supposed to be what angels were good at?

“Dean, we don’t know if it’s truly irrelevant. Remember what I told you in the garden – Adam’s soul is being pulled in a different direction –“

Bobby’s eyes go wide.

 _“What?”_

“He may not stay with us,” Castiel finishes.

“And just when were you two knuckleheads going to share this information?” Bobby growls. “It could be _Lucifer_ dragging him back to that Hell dimension—“

Dean grinds his jaw.

“Thanks, Bobby, we covered that Hallmark possibility. There’s nothing you can do, so I didn’t want you to worry. It’s Mike and Cas’s job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Castiel’s blue eyes harden, the line of his shoulders straightening with tension as he steps into Dean’s personal space. Dean snorts a laugh, because somehow knowing his friend, the leading angel of the Lord, could rip him in half always failed to intimidate him until he was in the process of coming apart and by then it was too late to do anything but hope for mercy and know he’d be stupid enough to do it all over again next time.

Castiel is annoyed.

“My _job_ is to return order to Heaven. My _job_ , Dean, is to ensure your parents’ final resting place doesn’t fall to anarchy and disrepair after everything we and your friends sacrificed to win it back. I wish I could stay, I wish I could do everything you asked of me, but I have other responsibilities. Michael won’t leave any stone unturned and Bobby wants to help; let him.”

Castiel is already turning away with the decent intent to use the front door.

“You don’t want to stay for soup?” Dean smirks, as he straightens with his hands on his hips.

Castiel glances from the kitchen light spilling into the living room, to Dean in the dark hallway. He shakes his head and it annoys Dean that there’s no regret in his face, not even that familiar shade of confusion. He just looks angry.

Dean knew he didn’t need to eat. That wasn’t the point.

“I’m needed upstairs. Call me when you make your decision about the healer.”

And then Castiel’s gone, door clicking shut behind him, and Dean’s not surprised, but he’s still disappointed. His chin drops to his chest, laughing dryly at the joke he’s become and pushes his hands deep back in their pockets.

Bobby shifts beside him, quiet scuff of denim and boots in the dark.

“You all right?”

Dean glowers at him and Bobby just raises his hands in surrender. He follows Dean back into the kitchen, but Dean hears the sigh Bobby always made when he was calling them names in his head.

What the hell did Bobby want him to do, talk about it?

They were hunters; they drank about it.

-*-

Adam is cold, stressed, and has the feeling his body is just staving off an inevitable meltdown, but at least the soup is hot.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Adam sips from his spoon and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Sam looks up from his phone, fingers paused mid-text, and the bright, involuntary smile that lights up his face gives Adam his answer.

“Something like that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s… complicated.” Sam shrugs, like an apology he can’t explain, but he’s still smiling and Adam was starting to learn it was hard not return one of this guy’s megawatt grins, especially when he ducked his head in that sweet, sheepish way and – holy crap, maybe Adam was having a revelation after all.

Through his brother?

He burns his tongue drowning his horror in his soup.

“Things usually aren’t as complicated as we think they are, we just let ‘em complicate _us_ ,” Adam says, and douses his tongue on his remaining glass of water.

Sam is looking at the message he’s typed and his eyebrows peak helplessly.

“You know….”

Adam swallows a bit too fast and decides to hold out for a refill just a little bit longer.

“Do you like her?”

Sam glances to the side and fiddles with the phone on his knee.

“…Yeah,” Sam says, hushed glow of fondness.

“And does she like you?”

Sam laughs, abrupt and warm. Adam knows it’s a stupid question because anybody Sam liked would have been powerless or stupid to say ‘no’.

“Yeah. Most definitely.”

Adam shrugs.

“So, why’s it complicated?”

Sam sighs and snaps the phone shut, setting it on the table beside his own bowl of soup.

“It’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it right now.”

“Is it like one of Castiel’s things ‘we may not speak of’?”

Sam chuckles, stirring his soup as he nods.

“Yeah, actually, it’s just like that.”

“No wonder your lives are so complicated.” Adam rolls his eyes and Sam laughs in agreement.

Dean and Bobby come back then and Adam glances between them and the archway to the hall expecting to see Castiel, but he doesn’t appear and nobody mentions it. His brother is frowning thoughtfully in response to whatever Bobby’s murmuring by his shoulder and Dean shrugs, conversation clipping to a close as they take seats at the table.

“Hey, this soup isn’t half bad,” Dean says after the first few tablespoons. “I got skills.”

Sam’s phone beeps cheerfully and he flips it open by his knee to read the new message.

“You talking to the old ball and chain?” Bobby nods at the phone.

Adam notices the difference when Bobby asks: Sam doesn’t beam. Instead, his shoulders draw in and his expression narrows to a focused squint on his task. He nods once, awkwardly.

“Are you going to invite her over?” Adam asks.

Dean looks up from his bowl and he’s wearing a cautious expression Adam hasn’t seen before: he looks dangerous. He hopes he never runs into Dean down a dark alley.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Sam admits, hesitantly.

“Yeah, if we want Adam to meet your dark side, we should take some precautions,” Dean says. “Get out the big guns.”

“Hey.” Sam glares at him.

“Torches,” Dean murmurs, nodding thoughtfully, and Adam connects the dots.

“Pitchforks?” he wonders and Sam’s glare abruptly cuts to him as Dean snorts a laugh.

“ _Hey_. You can’t talk, you don’t even remember them.”

“’Them’? How many do you have, Sam?” Adam raises an eyebrow in skepticism. “Your harem have any available friends?”

“No, you’re spoken for,” Sam refuses, and it’s not exactly the answer to his question, but it reminds Adam of another one he’d been letting slip all evening. A question which Dean would have preferred he forgot about, judging by the withering look he threw at their larger brother and the suspicious way Sam yelped, jumping in his seat.

Adam looks between them.

“Are you talking about that guy in the photo upstairs?”

“Which photo?” Bobby frowns.

“There’s a couple of photos in this study upstairs: my mom, you two—” Adam gestures at his brothers, “—and me with this guy sitting on an Impala.”

Dean’s face cracks in a slow smile.

“You recognised my baby.”

Now Adam’s really confused.

“Wait, the guy’s with _you_?”

Sam waves through the confusion clouding over their dinner table again.

“He’s talking about his car; I’ve seen the photo you’re talking about.”

“Who is it?” Dean’s face is suspicious and Adam thinks it’s one of his default expressions.

Sam looks meaningfully at his older brother and nods with a helpless shrug Adam doesn’t understand, and it’s really starting to get on his nerves how Sam seeks Dean’s confirmation for everything.

“Well?” Adam grates out. “You’re saying I’m spoken for; what am I – married?”

Bobby coughs around his mouthful of soup and pounds a fist against his chest when it sounds like it goes down the wrong way. Sam reaches over and slaps a hand on the hunter’s back.

“Deep breaths, Bobby,” Sam encourages.

“Is it Michael? Is that who you’ve been talking about?” Adam grits his teeth.

Dean sighs and spreads his hands around his bowl.

“Look, Adam, the thing with Michael… it’s complicated.”

“I’m hearing a lot of that tonight. Make it simple.”

Dean winces at the challenge, head cocking to the side as he searches the kitchen ceiling for inspiration.

“Michael is –“

“Michael is someone who cares a lot about you, Adam,” Sam fills in, taking his hand back when Bobby’s wheezing has died to a watery cough and he waves Sam off.

Adam pushes down the involuntary flutter in his gut and shrugs.

“Okay. Where is he?”

Why is he not surprised when Bobby and Sam both glance to Dean for the answer?

“ _Dean_?” Adam’s eyes narrow at the apparent ringleader and the edges of his metal spoon dig into his skin when his fingers clench it tightly.

“What am I, _Google Earth_?”

“Is this guy even real?”

“I’m real,” another voice answers.

There’s a man standing in the arched entry to the kitchen when Adam turns to the source of that voice. It’s the man from photo.

Was this a house of ninjas or something? People just kept appearing.

Adam’s eyes narrow as he looks the tall stranger over. It’s the same dark hair, bright brown – almost gold – eyes and he looks exhausted as Adam meets his gaze, hesitant as though he’s not sure what to expect.

“How long have you been standing there?” Adam asks, when what he really wants to know is: _’Are you Michael?’_

Dean’s halfway to his feet and he doesn’t look happy.

“Mike! We talked about this—”

Well, that answered that.

Michael shakes his head, that uncertainty fading when he looks to Dean.

“No, _you_ made a decision, but if he wants to see me, I’m staying.”

Adam has pushed out of his chair and he’s halfway across the kitchen before Dean has the chance to complain.

“Come with me,” he tells Michael and reaches for his arm.

“Adam, wait – don’t!” Dean panics and Adam notices Michael also startles, full body twitch, but too late to move out of Adam’s reach.

Adam glares at his supposed brother, not releasing his grip on the arm that feels like one solid muscle. He’s half tempted to dig his fingers in to see if it’d yield at all.

The kitchen releases a collective breath. It feels like this family’s been living on a knife edge for too long, he doesn’t know why, but if Dean’s hysteria is the order they’ve gotten used to, Adam’s going to have to upset a few things around here.

“S’cuse us.” Adam starts pulling Michael after him into the dark hallway.

“Don’t say a damn word,” Dean warns Michael.

Adam throws him a dirty look and just tugs Michael along faster before any sound like agreement can come out of Michael’s confused, fish-like gape. He has to get an account from someone without Dean there to censor the story.

There’s a series of unknown doors, but at least one of them has to give him the privacy he’s looking for. If he’s lucky and he’s right, this might be the only person inclined to give him a straight answer, the whole and however ugly truth.

That is, if Michael cared about him as much as Sam implied.

He shuts a door behind them and finds himself in a spare bedroom with a small bureau and tall mirror in the corner.

Michael is watching him carefully from where he’s stopped by the foot of the bed.

“Are you all right?” he asks, softly and Adam nods on reflex.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m—“ Adam sighs with a wide shrug. He’s confused as all hell.

Michael leans toward Adam as though he wants to reach for him.

He’s a stranger, but Adam wants answers, so he decides to test Sam’s claim.

At first, Michael seems stunned when Adam kisses him. Adam’s never actually kissed another guy before, but he’s a guy, too, and he knows what he likes – besides, how different could it be from kissing a girl?

It’s a few seconds delay, but then Michael moans this broken note of relief into Adam’s mouth and melts against him, wrapping his arms around his waist and torso to pull him comfortably flush where everything fits together and Adam has his proof; they’ve definitely done this before.

Michael smells like fresh-cut grass and rain, but he’s dry. He’s also warm enough Adam thinks he might be running a temperature.

“I was worried,” Michael confesses and his lips press to Adam’s cheek, hug squeezing tighter just for a moment and Adam groans before he can stop himself; for the first time all evening, he stops stressing.

Whether Michael realised it or not, he knew what Adam needed before Adam did and wasn’t that going to be interesting?

“I’m okay.” Adam finds himself nodding, eyes sliding shut when Michael next kisses him, feels the fingers curling tight and pressing into his hair, his scalp, his neck, as though Michael’s assuring himself that Adam’s here and whole. He’s pretty sure he should be freaking out just a bit more and, sure, his heart is hammering, but _God_ , he loves the way Michael kisses him, urgent, sweet and deep as his hands cradle and pull Adam impossibly closer.

Holy crap, he could get used to this. This should be weirder. Why wasn’t it weirder? And how was it possible he was getting turned on so fast by a complete stranger – a guy! He wasn’t gay! But he didn’t hook-up randomly, either, and Libby had been the last person he’d kissed—

His head’s still spinning when Michael pulls away first.

That’s a surprise.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Michael gasps, lips shining with moisture and swollen, and Adam’s first thought is to reel him back in. He’s relieved when Michael doesn’t let go of him, though the sudden arm’s length of distance between them seems ridiculous and Adam actually notices the cold.

Yeah, probably bi. He’d consider ‘bi’ for this guy.

“Okay, I’ll buy it: you’re my boyfriend or something.” Adam’s pulse is still drumming in his ears.

The hands on his shoulders tighten.

“… What?”

“You’re my _something_ , right?”

Michael’s expression twists with concern and misunderstanding.

“Adam, what are you talking about?”

“Wait, you let me _kiss_ you and then you – you’re _not_ my boyfriend?”

Michael’s face just gets more confused, hoping for an explanation. His hands slide down Adam’s arms until he’s loosely holding his wrists, thumbs circling concern over the back of his hands. It feels good, actually.

“I lost the last five years when I fell off the roof. You were gone, but the three stooges were here when I woke up.”

Michael glances back the way they had come, looking lost.

“The roof? Wh…. Five years?”

“Yeah, the roof – what were _you_ thinking?”

Michael pulls Adam’s hands to his chest and Adam drifts forward, loosely fisting his hands in the dark cotton shirt. This guy was so warm, hot even. Adam laughs at the thought and glances at Michael’s face, but Michael’s gaze drifts downwards to his collar and he shakes his head. Michael holds his hands when Adam lets them drop. The wheels are turning, Adam can see it, and he wonders if Dean already got to him.

“Adam… I’m just glad you’re all right.”

Michael takes Adam’s jaw in his hands, palm skimming down the line of his throat as he searches Adam’s face. It feels like an apology, a plea not to ask and it’s too heavy; despite how well he kisses and holds Adam like a familiar lover, Adam doesn’t know him. He can’t meet all that care and devotion focused so intently on him alone and he finds himself shrinking away, catching their reflection in that tall mirror. From the corner’s angle, they look almost chest-to-chest and, by the trick of perspective, Michael towers over him though the guy couldn’t have had more than an inch's height advantage.

But Michael waits. Eventually, Adam releases an unsteady breath and lets his palm lay flat against Michael’s chest. He grasps for that feeling when Michael held him and all the crap fell away. The air comes a little easier this time.

“I need you to fill in the gaps,” Adam says.

“What don’t you remember?” Michael’s thumb passes over his ear.

Adam laughs under his breath and shakes his head.

“Everything. Pre-med finals were coming up, I was going to meet my friend Josh for the weekend… then I woke up here. I just thought I had a few too many.”

“Do you remember your brothers? Bobby?”

“No.”

“… Then you don’t remember me?”

Adam shakes his head, feeling a genuine twinge of disappointment, mostly empathy. He may not know this guy so well, but he can tell from the little time they’ve had so far that Michael would be disappointed. Michael seemed like a nice guy and Adam hated disappointing people.

“No.”

Michael squeezes his shoulder and nape affectionately.

“… Adam, I’m your angel.”

Adam finally looks up into Michael’s painfully earnest face. He stares, he can’t help himself.

‘Angel’?

The laugh that escapes him is completely accidental and bubbles hysterically.

Trust his luck to wind up in an airy elevated gayship with a man of blue steel who insisted on referring to himself as an angel. After the reflexive hilarity, it rings warning bells for a damsel and sap dynamic that did _not_ turn Adam on. In fact, it was having the opposite effect and Adam pulls his hands back in spite of the hurt and confusion that starts to show in Michael’s face.

“Michael.” Adam has a lot of trouble wiping the bemused smile from his face and just ends up laughing again. “You might not want to say that in front of other people.”

Something changes in Michael’s face, as though he finally understands. He draws up, shoulders pushing back, and the sobriety that crosses his features somehow makes him look five inches taller; another trick of perspective and the low light.

“You really don’t remember _anything_ , do you?”

“It’s what I said.” Adam barely stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“Has anyone told you about your mother?”

The image of that missing person’s report flashes through Adam’s mind, and that imperfect picture of her on his laptop and the study. He has a sinking feeling it’s the only picture he has left of her. The momentary high at Michael’s expense vanishes.

“What do you know?”

“She’s in Heaven. She’s safe.”

Something about the way Michael stresses _safe_ makes Adam frown. Safe from what?

“Do you want to see her?” Michael asks and Adam stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

“You mean… like her grave?”

Michael shakes his head.

“Your mother doesn’t have a grave—“

Adam’s temper flares because there’s no way he’d let his mother go to rest without a headstone, but then Michael raises a hand, appealing for Adam to let him finish.

“—But I think you should speak with her. She’ll put your mind at ease.”

Okay. Michael was either off his nut or he was gently threatening to send Adam to an early grave to reunite with his late mother and Adam didn’t favour either possibility.

He glances surreptitiously around the suddenly claustrophobic space of the room. The earlier peace he’d discovered is quickly fading.

“Castiel,” Michael murmurs, watching Adam’s face carefully.

A brush of air tickles the hair at his neck and Adam starts at the new figure he catches in their reflection. He hadn’t heard the door open.

Castiel is glowering at Michael from the bedside.

 _What the hell?_

Castiel had just _appeared_. Adam _knew_ he didn’t imagine it.

“Michael. Dean had a plan,” Castiel growls under his breath like he’s come against his will. “We want Adam to have peace. You’ll destroy the design.”

Adam frowns between the two of them.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“Adam, this is Castiel.” Michael gestures between them.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” Adam grits out and backs right into the bureau, wood protesting noisily at being knocked against the stone wall. “Dude almost made me have an accident.”

“He was driving in the rain,” Castiel adds, voice flat, and Michael makes a noise suggesting he’s not surprised.

“He needs to see his mother,” Michael tells Castiel. “I can’t take him there.”

Castiel frowns in speculation.

“What have you told him?”

“He knows she’s passed.”

“And of you?”

“I told him.”

Castiel looks away then, exasperated.

“Of course you did. Michael.”

“Castiel, he’s lost memory of us all. She’s the only one who can explain it to him.”

Adam has no idea what they’re suggesting, but he hopes they continue not to notice him discreetly searching through the drawers and then creeping towards the door when he comes up empty of any makeshift weapon. He doesn’t want to have to defend himself against these guys; he hopes he doesn’t have to, but he _does_ have to be prepared.

He entertains the idea they’re so engrossed in their own delusion they won’t notice him reaching the door, until Castiel and Michael cut a look at him at the same moment, twin frowns of _what do you think you’re doing?_

Adam clutches the doorknob behind him, ready to run.

Castiel sighs and throws Michael a look of warning.

“Stay here until we return. And don’t tell Dean.”

“Make sure you’re not followed,” Michael says.

Adam startles when Castiel reappears beside him, blue eyes narrowed and his fingertips a breath from Adam’s forehead.

Adam’s back presses to the cool wooden door.

“Please. Don’t.” He’s not sure what he’s begging against, but it relaxes the set of Castiel’s shoulders, the determined lines of his expression softening into sympathy.

“No harm will come to you, Adam,” Castiel promises and then glances down, speaking to Michael over his shoulder. “We’ll be back soon.”

Castiel’s fingers meet his skin and Adam stiffens at the wrench from inside his bones before the world rips away like he’s falling off the back of a truck at a hundred miles per hour. But he never hits the ground. Something cold and vast wraps around him like a whip, crackling thunder and light through everything he is before it tightens, fast, and charges into the stars.

If Adam was keen enough to be aware of all of this, he might have realised they were flying.

Even if it felt like falling.

It feels like it lasts for less than a second: one moment Castiel’s pushing fingers against his forehead and the next he’s flailing as if to regain his balance on a precarious ledge. Castiel’s hands steady his shoulders as his feet stumble in the tufts of crabgrass, finding even ground on flat asphalt.

That was so much worse than the truck.

Adam sucks in a breath, coughs it back out at the shock of cold and watches his breath mist on the air. They’re outside, it’s night time, and it smells like winter.

Adam looks at Castiel as the man pulls his hands back and gives him space to take in his surroundings.

They’re standing on a long street of stores, bright-lit trees glittering along the median strip. Adam recognises that bakery even with its lights out, and two stores down, the new laundromat. Well, the Laundromat that was new at the time he entered middle school--

He looks sharply at Castiel.

“Where the hell are we? This is… this is….”

At the end of the street, before the town hall stands the largest of the pine trees, blinking white, green and red streams under the hanging sign lit ‘Happy New Year 2003!’

Adam stares. He remembers this. He was here.

He looks back at Castiel, eyes wide.

“This is impossible.”

“This is Heaven,” Castiel explains gently, “Your mother’s Heaven, specifically.”

Adam pales.

“Am I dead?”

 _“Adam?”_

He goes completely stiff at the sound of _her_ voice, soft and unbelieving.

His boots are slippery on the ice when he turns, and then he can’t breathe, the weight of relief crushing the air from him.

It’s his mother.

It’s her, Kate, in that sky blue parka she wore every cold evening and morning she had to work the night shift until she retired it in the Christmas of ’04 because it snagged an unmendable tear on the vending machine of the hospital’s visitor lounge. Her light blonde hair peeks from the bottom of her thick, woven cap and she looks as young as he remembers, hardly a line in her face that’s currently written in surprise and concern.

“Adam?” she asks again, fingers knuckle-white at the folds of the parka she’s wrapped tightly around herself. She looks him over from head to toe. “It’s… it’s really you, isn’t it?”

Something crumbles in Adam’s chest and his throat tightens, eyes burning with tears.

“Mom—“

“Oh, honey.” She reaches for him and Adam covers the two steps it takes before he’s holding her tight and Adam breathes deep. Her light perfume is familiar, honeysuckle (or was it honeydew?), and that unmistakable something that was uniquely _Mom_. Adam sobs dry against her hair and lets her go when she pulls back, searching his face earnestly.

“Honey, what are you doing here?”

“I’m so glad you’re okay, they told me you were dead—”

Kate’s face shifts back to surprise. She blinks up at him and tucks the hair behind his ear with one mitted hand.

“… I _am_. You’re in Heaven.”

“Wha—“ Adam frowns, he doesn’t understand. “Mom, what’s going on? I don’t know how I got here.”

Kate follows his glance back at Castiel, but Castiel is gazing at the steady procession of local Windom towards the town hall in celebration of the coming New Year.

“He’s an angel, he brought you here. He’s done it once before. I just didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“An _angel_?”

She searches his face carefully, mitts still holding his face.

Castiel was an angel? An actual feather-dusted guardian halo angel? Could that mean that Michael had also been telling the truth?

Holy crap, had Adam just been macking an _angel_?

“Mom, I don’t know what’s going on,” he confesses, dangerously close to a sob again as he takes her hands in his. “I was studying for finals, then it’s like I rolled over and it was _five years later_ , there were these guys who said they were my brothers-“

“The Winchesters?” Kate asks gently.

Adam nods.

“Sam and Dean, they’re your brothers. I’m sorry we didn’t know before I passed, but John… well, he had his reasons.”

“So, it’s true?”

His mother smiles reassuringly and squeezes his hands.

“There’s something different about you, honey. But I don’t think you’re dead. What are you doing here?”

Castiel chooses that moment to re-join the conversation. Kate looks at him, startled, when he steps in.

“Kate.”

“It’s good to see you again, Castiel,” she says, doing her usual routine of assessing a newcomer to the conversation. Most women took offence to it, Adam knew. Castiel didn’t seem to notice or care. “I hope the circumstances are better than last time.”

“Adam has lost memory of the intervening five years. I’m sure you can agree he doesn’t need to remember the worst of his hardships during that time, but he no longer recognises his family. He’s attempted to run from us no less than twice in one evening and risked his life both times.”

Kate looks at him, eyes wide and admonishing.

“Adam Milligan. Didn’t I teach you better self-preservation than that?”

Adam sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Sorry, Mom. Forgot my grappling hook.”

“Oh, you nerd.”

“Crone.”

Castiel blinks in bemusement when the two Milligans crack a smile and Kate nudges her son with a shoulder, before wrapping her arms around him again. Adam’s arm winds around her shoulders as he leans his cheek against her hair.

“I only found out today. I miss you so much already,” Adam murmurs.

“Well, I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me,” Kate teases, beaming up at him. “But I’m not your only family anymore, honey.”

“I know… Sam and Dean. Dean’s a jerk.”

“He cares. He’s a lot like you, you know.”

“He’s _not_! And you’re dead, how would you know?”

“I’ve been _watching_ , smart mouth! Don’t speak to your mother that way.”

Adam makes a half-hearted noise of protest when her mitt gently butts his chin. He sulks for her benefit, but it curls into a smile at the end.

“And you have a grumpy old grandpa, Bobby – better than what we had, you can probably tell by now.”

“I’m supposed to think of him as an uncle,” Adam says.

Kate nods helpfully.

“Whatever keeps him young. Bobby is smart and kind, Adam. When your brothers are losing their heads, it’s probably safest to take shelter with Bobby, unless he’s the cause.”

Adam looks his mother over with a frown.

“You really been watching that much, woman?”

“When I can,” she says with a conspiratorial note. “Although I’m not supposed to, they say it stops us from accepting our death and moving on with the groundhog loop of the best and brightest, but – Ash hooked me up.”

“Who’s Ash?”

“He is a _Godsend_ , I’ll tell you about that another time.”

Adam brightens.

“I can come back?”

“No,” Castiel intervenes this time, drawing Adam’s scowl. “We’ve already bent the rules to bring you here. It’s dangerous, for you and for her.”

“Why?” Adam asks.

“Your entire father’s bloodline is in witness protection. Our presence here draws attention the longer we stay and the living don’t belong in Heaven. It upsets the balance.”

Was the angel serious? Adam turns to his mom with wide eyes.

“Mom, why are you in witness protection? What the hell happened?”

Kate’s mouth shrugs in a sympathetic smile as though she’s had a lot of time to adjust to the fact there was a need for witness protection in _Heaven._

“There was a war, honey, and these angels.…” Kate glances at Castiel over Adam’s shoulder and nods. “Most of them accept things are running differently than they used to. They’re even our friends, but some of them could still want to hurt us. Castiel’s doing us a favour.”

Kate’s expression becomes serious, it’s that same one she wore when she left him instructions to do his homework and _don’t forget to clean his dishes_ , before she left him for the night to save lives and assist doctors that made her roll her eyes when they weren’t looking.

“Adam.” Her mitts frame his jaw and then settle on his shoulders. “You may not believe it now, but that stuffy angel is your family, too.”

Adam glances at said angel who’s reached to brush a film of snowflakes from one of the parked cars and rub it between his fingers.

“Yeah, I thought that might be the case. I think he and Dean have a thing.”

“Stay out of that.”

“Hey, if he’s a douche to me, I’m giving him hell,” Adam warns.

His mom steels him with a firm look.

“Don’t talk about hell. This family don’t joke about that – no, don’t ask, just trust me.”

Adam sighs and shrugs.

“Sure. Okay. Anything else? You going to give me a list of birthdays to remember?”

“Michael,” his mother says.

Adam’s entire body tenses and suddenly he’s acutely aware of what else his mother could have seen from up here. Ugh, it makes his skin crawl and he shudders at the thought.

“What about him?”

Kate searches his face with a slow smile that dissipates most of his worry, that familiar assurance she’d smooth with a hand through his hair, even when he grew taller than her, and seldom failed to prove true: mother knows best.

“Just… don’t be too hard on him, honey. You two have had a rough road and I think he’s trying to make it up to you. The whole _family’s_ had a tough decade, so everyone’s going to have a few sharp edges. Be patient with each other.”

“You know who you’re talking to, right?”

Adam rolls his jaw, then rolls his eyes with a groan at the irresistible smile she directs at him, glowing, like she can see the best in him beaming through.

“I think you can manage it. You’ll see it’s worth it, in the end. You have good people around you.” Kate takes his chin and pouts a smile at him, “Don’t screw it up.”

He swats her hand away and engulfs her in a hug instead, cherishing her chuckle against his ear.

“I’m gonna miss you.”

“Would it help if I said I’ll always be watching over you?”

Adam grimaces and pulls back from the hug to regard her impish grin.

“Actually, Mom, it wouldn’t. That’s kind of creepy and I don’t think I could ever take a shower again.”

“The shower’s the least of your worries: I stopped watching when you got together with Michael and I thought I’d never rid the images of you two in that bar and—“

“Ah! Stop!” Adam winces, hands flying to cover his ears. He’d never have a hope for a sex life if he thought his Mom was looking over his shoulder, or had ever witnessed it in the past.

Kate gets her grin under control enough for Adam to trust she won’t further scar him when she pulls his hands away from his ears.

“Adam. _Honey_. As long as you’re happy and nobody’s getting hurt, I promise not to open that window.”

“Great. Thanks,” he manages, but he’s still wincing.

“Now you promise me something.”

“… Okay?”

“Look out for yourself. I want you to work to keep this family, it’s a good thing you’ve all got going, but… look out for yourself. Nobody else is going to do it for you. Remember?”

She’d told him that from a young age, when it was just the two of them and John would drop in on occasion, but at the end of the day…. Yeah. He remembers.

“Mom?” Adam presses, because he can’t help himself. “Why are there angels in our lives? How did I hook up with one?”

Kate smiles abruptly again, mittens curling over his ears.

“Because God commanded it.”

His eyes narrow at the suspicious way her words lift with question at the end.

“You just made that up, didn’t you? You expect me to believe that God wrote a commandment about my love life?”

“I said _commanded_ not _commandment_ , you stubborn kid. Just take the win and go, would you?”

Adam snorts a laugh and shakes his head, squeezing her hands in his.

“Heaven’s changed you, Mom.”

She beams at him and gestures to a young man with blonde hair walking ahead of them on the edge of the median strip, hands in his pockets.

“Because I get to see you every day.”

Adam startles, realising it’s him. Younger him from all those years ago, too proud to wear a jacket warm enough and annoyed he had to stay back with his Mom instead of join his friends’ new year’s party. But it turned into one of the best new year’s they ever spent together, staying up all night with all the wrong food, piles of blankets and so many stories, just him and his Mom.

Adam feels a brush against his arm and it’s Castiel beckoning him on.

“We need to leave, Adam.”

The loss cuts through him like cold panic, but his mother squeezes his hand again, smile unwavering when he looks back to her.

“You’ll be fine. I love you.”

He feels the tightness building in his throat again and crushes her close in their last hug. He holds on as long as he can before he thinks Castiel will come back for him and he wants the strength to pull away before that happens.

“Love you, Mom.”

She kisses his cheek and smiles, so wide and excited, when he steps back that he can’t help but feel it lift him a little, too. She’s smiling like she knows something he doesn’t and he’s calmed at the thought it’s something good, but it doesn’t lessen the ache when he finally manages to turn away and Castiel is there, waiting, solemn and silent.

He touches two fingers to Adam’s forehead and Adam lands back in the spare bedroom where it’s still night. His hand hits something solid and warm when he shoots an arm out for balance and looks around the room.

Castiel is gone. His mother is gone.

He believes it now.

He looks at Michael who just wraps fingers around the hand Adam’s pressed to his chest and it’s Michael’s expression that breaks him: that open care and sympathy because he knows Adam’s heart is breaking.

The sob chokes in his throat and Michael draws him in, letting Adam drop his head to Michael’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what he should do with his hands and eventually lets them hang, fists clenched at his sides as he cries, and Michael hugs him, one arm wrapped around his waist as the other rubs warm lines up and down his back.

Michael doesn’t say anything and Adam is grateful.

-*-

Dean quietly knocks on the spare bedroom door before dawn.

Michael rises from the bed where Adam is still curled on his side, sleeping, and Michael has been watching his dreams, sifting away the shadows. Michael doesn’t look at all surprised to see Dean’s face when he cracks the door open, conscious of the creaky hinges.

“Are you decent?” Dean asks. His face is drawn in the early morning, like he doesn’t want to be here and he’s weary at the thought of whatever’s brought him. “We need to talk. There’s something I have to tell you. About Adam.”

It’s good timing. Michael has a few questions of his own about the story Adam relayed and he’s confident he knows who supplied him with it.

Michael closes the door behind him and they take their discussion into the back grove where they have a smaller chance of shouting the house down. It turns out to be a fortunate thing that the closest neighbour lives half a mile away.

-*-

Adam’s hands left bloody smears on the door.

He shouted for Dean, fingers slippery on the doorknob that burned to the touch, as the entire room shook and crumbled behind him.

The light at his back intensified, descending upon the green room. Calling for Dean, Adam realised he couldn’t even hear himself, drowned out by the toneless voice vibrating through the door under his hand, the false ground beneath him, and it pressed the air from his chest.

When he finally turned to face Michael, all he saw was light: beautiful, visceral light bending across the universe, reforming with bands, waves, and tendrils from upon and within itself, each brighter than the last.

And he was here for his vessel.

Adam felt Michael’s surprise, then slow anger, because Adam was not Dean and Zachariah had failed again. Or had he?

Adam swallowed his own blood when an invisible force held him against the door. Michael’s formless light swept over him and Adam shut his eyes, terrified, at the push through his hair, the pressure against his temples that slid down and through the blood at his chin. When the angel finally spoke, it resonated through Adam’s flesh and bones as though it had come from within himself.

 _You’re not what I asked for._

Michael’s rage trembled through him, heady and righteous, and Adam’s hands curled with it, until it felt like his own.

 _I didn’t ask for you, either_ , Adam pushed back.

That pressure carded through his hair again, curling and pressing at the base of neck, the sensation jolting through him like a current. His entire body seized, held tight for a few long seconds as space expanded and contracted within him, around him, he lost sense of which way was up from down as heat fanned through him like blissful fever, buckling his knees.

 _You’ll do_ , Michael seemed to decide.

 _I’m not saying ‘yes’ to you, you son of a bitch._

There was a rumble of bemusement, another curious brush across Adam’s ear and it almost burned in the pass along his jaw.

 _You’ve had some bad luck, Adam._ The voice ran through him in tremors and he shut his eyes as his head fell back against the door. _Your mother’s murder. Eaten alive. Did anyone come for you? When you called and screamed for help, who came?_

 _None of you, that’s for damn sure._

Adam tried to push back, but his limbs didn’t respond. He didn’t want to remember that night and he won’t talk about the way his gut twisted with misery and helpless rage hearing his mother’s screams as he was held down two rooms away. And then she walked in. She smiled, teeth tinted pink from blood, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The kiss became teeth and they sank into his skin, and Adam screamed as she gnawed and tore until his skin ripped from his flesh. _It’s not her,_ Adam realized, but too late.

 _He shuddered remembering how he was shredded under the slow push of their hands and the heat fanned through him again, relaxing the tension and anxiety almost against his will._

 __You’re supposed to be angels. You’re supposed to guide and protect –_ _

_Have you actually read the Bible, Adam?_

The blood was suddenly gone from Adam’s lips and he straightened without feeling those tears in his gut, his chest, and his throat. But Michael was still an angel. Michael would still make him bleed.

 _If God wanted to save you, he would have. He would have asked us to protect your family and those monsters would have been smote before you were even born. But God is dead and he’s not giving the orders anymore._

 _Who is?_

 _You will never need to fear with me, Adam. If you call, I will be there. I will destroy your enemies. I will protect you and those you love._

Adam involuntarily thought of his mother, but he didn’t want her on the angels’ radar after this double-cross.

 _I thought Heaven was about love and forgiveness._

 _Heaven is the home of devotion. We were created to praise, to love, and to war. We do these very well._

 _I’ll never—_

 _You’ll never need to fear again._

 _… No._

 _I want to give you revenge._

Adam shook his head, ignoring the rush of anger at the angel’s words. He couldn’t deny that he wanted someone else to suffer for putting him through this, but he was just one guy. If this was God’s design – and it was the first time in his life that he’d been confronted by the fact there was an actual God – then he’d have more than words with that asshole.

 _I want you to have peace._

Adam opened his eyes, gazing up through the layers and layers of Michael’s blinding grace.

 _I’ll protect you. I’ll love you,_ Michael promises, but it still makes Adam shudder as though it were a threat. _If you’ll let me._

 _… You want Dean._

 _I do. But I have you._

-*-

It’s barely dawn and Sam hasn’t really slept.

The fresh morning air is cool and damp with the previous night’s storm. His boots squeak on the stone pavers as he goes to the end of the front path where he should be safely out of earshot and hits the second speed dial on his cell phone.

It picks up on the first ring.

“If this isn’t a six-four Adonis with chocolate hair, I’m not buying,” a man answers, wearily.

Sam frowns at the faded signpost across the road pointing towards town.

“What? Chocolate?”

“Oh, it _is_ you,” the man’s voice lightens with relief. “I haven’t heard from you in almost three hours. Don’t you humans sleep?”

Sam rolls his eyes to himself, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not for lack of trying,” he chuckles and his voice catches, betraying how tired he really is. He’d come off a long stint from work with a collective six hours of sleep lasting him through most of the week and last night hadn’t helped settle him down. He was too worried about Adam and the people on the other end of this phone line.

The man’s voice turns sympathetic, quietening.

“I’m sorry, babe. How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. But I just wanted to check in, it’s morning here anyway. How are you? Is everything all right?”

“We’re fine… aren’t we?” the man asks playfully and there’s a muffled noise of agreement Sam can overhear. They’re probably settling down to bed in their time zone and Sam thinks of it with longing. He hadn’t enjoyed a full night’s rest in his own bed in so long. He was just returning from his business trip when he’d received the news from Bobby. He knew Dean would have also heard and he was caught somewhere between angry and hurt that Dean hadn’t told him first. When Dean finally did contact him, it was to tell Sam to keep his distance.

For all that Dean had said about Sam ‘finding his own goddamn sunset’ and taking the time to figure out if he could really manage something domestic with his new company, Sam didn’t think Dean had meant for Sam to get lost and stay that way. Dean’s attitude, however, was getting harder to ignore and, honestly? It hurt.

Dean was happy to chat with Sam over the phone, always picked up when he called and responded to Sam’s texts, but when it came to seeing each other face-to-face, Dean withdrew.

So, Dean had wanted Sam to stay back again this time: Sam was not the best at following orders from his family. This was the first time he’d seen his brothers in almost two months and Dean was already arguing with everyone.

“Good. That’s great,” Sam says and doesn’t quite manage to keep the dejection from his voice.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and then Sam hears a murmured _I’ll be right back_ and the ambient noise he hadn’t notice until then of the television disappears.

“Sam, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he answers automatically and succeeds, at least a little, in lightening his voice. “It’s just been a long week.”

“It’s been a long _year_. You’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?”

“… Yeah,” Sam agrees reluctantly and already knows he’ll ask.

“What do you need, babe?”

Sam looks back at the sleeping cottage and admits it to himself.

“Help.”

-*-

Adam doesn’t feel rested when he wakes up, unable to recall what he’d dreamed, but he’s left with a wound tension in his chest suggesting it hadn’t been good.

“That was you in the rain.”

Michael’s head turns on the pillow to meet Adam’s gaze.

“Last night when I ran,” Adam says, “You pulled me out of the mud.”

“… I wasn’t thinking.”

Adam frowns, confused. Was it so hard just to say “you’re welcome”? Was Michael not supposed to be helping him or something?

“Well, thanks,” Adam sighs and looks back to the ceiling. There were no cracks in the paint here.

The pale sunlight makes Adam think it’s still early morning and it occurs to him that he hasn’t seen a single clock in this entire house except on his laptop. He has no idea what time they fell asleep last night, sitting at the bed’s edge with his head on Michael’s shoulder.

He tries not to think about why Michael had to hold him in the first place.

His throat tightens, anyway, at the unbidden thought of _Mom._

“How are you feeling?” Michael asks, his fingers curling through Adam’s on the bedspread.

“Yeah,” Adam mutters, noncommittally.

He feels like his heart, lungs and gut have been scraped out with a blunt knife. He’s been better.

He’s still focusing on _not_ thinking about his mother when he pulls his hand away and folds his hands on his stomach instead. His stomach, which hurts, and he realizes he can’t remember eating much – if any – of his dinner from the night before.

“I think I’m hungry.”

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” Michael says, after a beat.

Adam looks at the angel when he begins rising from the bed – and he’s still trying to wrap his head around that one. An angel. There was nothing sprouting from Michael’s back, no halo, no suggestion from the way he pushed himself up to sit that there were other parts to him that Adam couldn’t see.

Michael looked just like an ordinary guy.

A guy who wanted to bring Adam breakfast in bed.

“I’ll do it.” Adam shoves himself up on one elbow and swings a leg over the bed side.

Michael watches him carefully make his way around the bed. Adam steps faster, tucking his arms around his middle at the thought Michael might fall in step with him and try to wrap an arm around Adam’s shoulders, or rest a hand at his nape.

In the light of day, he sees the dark circles under his own eyes in the mirror and the unhealthy pallor that makes him look like a walking zombie. Without the secretive shroud of night, it’s harder to entertain the thought of Michael touching him, wanting to hold or kiss him.

Adam only has his own curiosity to blame for that.

He shoots Michael a brief, tight smile when the angel lingers at his heels and Adam all but wraps himself around the door before spilling into the cool air of the hallway to keep some distance between them.

 _Real smooth,_ he kids himself. _No points for subtlety._

A quick glance over his shoulder confirms Michael’s probably thinking the same thing.

Great.

The kitchen is quiet, bright light spilling in from the windows that makes him initially wince – and why the hell weren’t there any curtains?

“Here,” Michael says, handing him a blanket spilled over one of the table chairs and Adam realizes, yes, his arms _were_ cold.

Michael moves around the kitchen as Adam pulls the blanket around his shoulders, noting the long rows of an orchard out the kitchen windows. It was pretty freaking postcard perfect.

His mouth feels sandy. There are still plates, glasses, and cutlery on the table. The pot of tomato soup from the night before is almost empty.

Just as he’s wondering where his brothers have gotten to, the floorboards in the ceiling creak and Adam looks up. They’re in the study.

Michael offers him a steaming mug and Adam wraps his hands around it gratefully, body sighing at the rich, delicious scent of fresh, black coffee. It forms a nugget of warmth against his chest and he enjoys the aroma as it warms him.

“Thanks,” Adam says.

“Of course.” Michael leans back against the counter beside him and Adam remembers that Michael made a great personal space heater the night before.

His fingers tighten in the blanket and he clears his throat quietly.

“So, do you live here, too?” Adam asks. “I mean… with me?”

Michael nods, intently searching his face.

“Yes.”

Adam’s stomach has started churning and he can’t tell if it’s nerves or hunger. He breaks Michael’s gaze and looks at the mess of the dining table instead.

“Do angels eat?”

“We can. It’s unnecessary.”

Adam glances at him, then back into his mug. “Do you… do you want to have breakfast with me?”

“… Yes.”

He is _so_ relieved that Michael doesn’t reach out to hug him, or pet a hand through his hair.

Adam clutches his coffee tighter and swallows past the dryness in his throat. This was already sort of awkward. He takes an experimental sip of coffee; it’s damn near perfect.

He wonders how many angels are named ‘Michael’.

“Let’s see if we’ve still got any of that bread,” he says, making his way to the fridge.

-*-

Breakfast is not completely awkward.

Adam tears off chunks of bread and accepts the slices of pear Michael cuts for him straight off the fruit.

Michael flips the small knife in his hand, studying the dissected fruit and Adam holds out the small roll of bread.

“You want some of this?”

Michael accepts without hesitation and eats the piece slowly.

“These pears are from the backyard,” he says. “Dean picked them yesterday.”

Adam sips his coffee.

“I don’t usually like pears, but these are okay.”

Michael cuts another piece, eating it from the blade.

“I’d like you to meet someone.”

Adam looks at him, momentarily forgetting the bread portion in his hand. He’d met so many people in the last day. How many more could there be?

“Who?” Adam asks.

“One of my brothers. She’s a healer.”

Adam may have just woken up, but there was something wrong with the pronouns in that sentence.

“Don’t you mean ‘sister’?”

Michael steals a sip from Adam’s mug. Adam stares at the drink as it’s set back in front of him.

“Raphael is resuming her duties as a healer. It’s been a long time since she held that office, but she’s the best there is. I’d like her to see you.”

Adam watches Michael set the pear core on one of the dishes from last night.

“Raphael?”

Michael nods, meeting his eye.

“And Michael?”

Michael frowns, his hand sliding across the table. Adam pulls his hands to his lap.

“What is it, Adam?”

“What’s with the names? Raphael and Michael?”

“Yes.”

“… Like the archangels?”

Michael nods.

“You’re the archangel Michael?” Adam swallows.

“I was the sword of Heaven,” Michael says.

 _Fuck._ Adam slouches under the weight of the news. What the hell was the archangel Michael doing in his kitchen?

“’Was’?”

Michael gestures with the knife then holds it end-to-end between his hands. The silence lingers for a few long moments and Adam adjusts himself in his seat, unsure if there’s something he should or could say to ease the tension. He’s verging on an apology to retract the question when Michael releases a long breath, curling the knife under his folded hands.

“I can’t return to Heaven. I’m no longer their sword.”

It sounds like a sad, guilty secret. Adam speaks carefully, conscious of where he’s treading, that he’s almost definitely way in over his head.

“What happened?”

Michael glances at him, quickly looking away like he sees something difficult in Adam’s face.

“There was a prison.” Michael motions to Adam with the knife. “To escape, I had to give you my name. So you took it… and we broke free.”

Why the hell had they been in prison? And what had Adam ever done to deserve being in the same prison as something – someone – like Michael? Up until yesterday, Adam hadn’t even known angels really existed.

Fuck, what had Adam done?

“You mean… falsifying identities? Is that how I got the name ‘Remington’?” He asks instead, because he’s not sure he understands what Michael meant about his name. Did angels even _have_ surnames?

Michael bows his head, shoulders tensing and releasing with a tight sigh.

“No, there’s another name and I can’t return to Heaven without it.”

Adam shakes his head; he still can’t understand what the problem is.

“I was just fine being Adam Milligan. I don’t know what you mean, but if this is something I can give back… I’ll do it. You can have it.”

A humorless smile flickers across Michael’s features.

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I _can’t_ take it.” Michael’s voice is firm, jaw flexing, pushing the words through gritted teeth.

Adam wonders why he can’t, but Michael’s expression has closed. Adam is sorry he’s done this, he’s sorry that Michael looks like he might resent Adam for this.

What did they do? Did they deserve it? Were they safe now, in this orchard of wine country? Or were they in hiding?

There’s a heavy weight in Adam’s chest, sinking through that scraped, hollow feeling left behind with the loss of his mother. It’s agonizing.

“You saved my life,” Adam says.

“I saved both of us.” The way Michael says it makes it sound lesser, but Adam could be imagining that his voice is hushed with shame. Adam didn’t really know this guy yet, but he and Michael were here in this future sharing a life; he hopes they also shared trust.

“Thanks,” he says, “Thank you.”

Michael nods. He hears Adam, but he doesn’t say anything and the look in his face is morose.

“I’ll see Raphael. If she’s the best, I could probably learn a thing or two,” Adam says, giving a bracing smile when Michael looks at him.

The angel almost smiles in return.

“I’ll be back. Finish your breakfast.”

Michael stands, hand briefly squeezing Adam’s shoulder before he turns for the back door.

Adam considers the table in front of him and reaches for another pear from the bowl.

-*-

Castiel is standing in the shade of the pear trees when Michael walks down the orchard lane.

Michael stops, drawing up straight. He hadn’t called Castiel, but here he was, as though knowing the older angel had questions, or maybe burning accusations to level, because he and Adam were once again strangers to each other.

Michael had made an assumption that Castiel would know what to do. Michael had given only one instruction: _let him keep my name._

Castiel should have known how to fill in the gaps. Michael knows now that it had been an unfair assumption.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, for his benefit, finally looking away from the fence line.

Maybe they were all still strangers, after all. They couldn’t take anything for granted.

“It’s not your fault,” Michael eventually says. “I appreciate what you did.”

“… I think you would do the same.”

Michael appreciates the credit, but it still surprises him.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and this time it’s Castiel who looks at him with that small frown, waiting for an explanation. “You’ve been here more these last few days than I’ve seen you in the last six months. How is Heaven?”

Castiel physically draws back at the question. He recovers quickly, but Michael still sees it, he still wants to turn Castiel’s shoulder so the angel will look him in the eye and explain what’s on his mind. Instead, he lets Castiel focus his thoughts on the bark of the tree he stands beneath.

“Heaven still stands. Our brothers and sisters are reforming; Heaven is healing.”

“That’s excellent news,” Michael says, but there’s something Castiel is not telling him. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”

Castiel’s neck twitches with an abortive motion like he means to look at him, but stops himself at the last moment. He’s apprehensive, he’s warring with something, and Michael wishes he would share it with him, but eventually Castiel nods and takes flight without a further word.

There is something Castiel _wants_ to tell him. Michael can be patient.


	4. Chapter 4

Adam thought Raphael was supposed to be a woman.

The blond angel who appears in his kitchen dressed as though he’s on his way to a bar is most definitely not a woman.

Adam sits back in his seat as the angel’s blue eyes settle on him, face lighting up with a delighted smirk.

“Ah. Don’t _you_ look harassed?” The light, British accent rolls off the man’s tongue with surprising ease and Adam hadn’t even considered that angels could be multicultural.

His hand moves to his bed hair self-consciously.

“Are you Raphael?” he asks dubiously, taking in the angel’s black, polished shoes, chrome trousers and the chest-hugging black tee under the sports jacket.

This guy looked like he was on his way to some place fun and he shakes his head in bemusement.

“Are you daft? I’m the better half, though she’s loathe to admit it and _don’t_ tell her I said that or she’ll bar me at the gates and I’m lobbying for angels to imbibe without guilt or retribution at our next GM, so it’s important I can get back in.”

The angel says all of this drifting through Adam’s kitchen, surveying everything on the walls, opening cupboards, the fridge, and humming with delight when he finds the cache of beer.

Adam stares at his back, feeling no more informed about who this angel was, except that he was apparently involved with the angel who was _supposed_ to be here.

“I’m Adam,” he begins, and the angel looks back over his shoulder with an indulgent, patronizing smile.

“Yes, I know who you are, Sunflower.”

Adam’s eyes narrow at the nickname.

“ _Adam._ Who are you?”

The angel joins him at the table, setting down his bottle and straightening with a superior air.

“I’m your doctor.”

“Really?” Adam notes the mocking way the angel says it; he wasn’t even dressed like a doctor and he wasn’t doing a good job of selling the role.

“I am today.” The angel spreads his arms magnanimously with a brilliant smile and he’s so damn slick Adam can’t help shaking his head. It was hard to believe this guy was for real and Adam couldn’t decide whether to like or be annoyed by him. Adam wanted to laugh and shove him at the same time.

“What’s your name?” Adam asks.

“Balthazar and that’s not open to abbreviation. This is yours.” The angel sets the beer bottle in front of him and slides into the nearest seat.

Adam looks from the bottle to the angel.

“It’s not even noon.”

Balthazar blinks at him for a moment before apparently deciding to agree with him.

“No, it isn’t. What am I thinking – what a terrible physician.” The bottle vanishes in a moment and Balthazar folds his hands on the table, leaning in with such abrupt seriousness in his expression as he searches Adam’s face. “So, Adam. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“What kind of doctor are you supposed to be?”

“Suspicious! Good to see you haven’t lost that caution. To answer your question, I’m every kind of doctor except the one who arrives with a piece of paper. Open up and say ‘ah’.”

Balthazar gently takes his jaw and nods expectantly when Adam just stares at him, bewildered. He eventually opens his mouth and Balthazar quickly glances inside without a thoughtful frown.

“Okay, you _will_ need this.” The beer rematerializes in front of Adam as Balthazar takes the pear and knife, cutting himself a slice.

Adam watches him, wary.

“Is it bad?”

“Honestly, yes. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to brush before entertaining company in the morning, Sunny?” Balthazar takes a bite of the pear and makes an appreciative noise.

This angel was nine kinds of charming. Adam swallows a mouthful of beer, pulling a face at the bitter taste around the lingering flavor of bread and fruit so early in the morning. Although it wasn’t the first time he’d had beer for breakfast, it had been a while.

“I’m something of an expert in souls, so I _am_ qualified to speak on this matter,” Balthazar continues between bites, how polite of him.

Adam feels himself frown, wiping his palm dry of the beer’s condensation on his jeans.

“Souls? I fell off the roof and lost the last five years of my memory. Why are you talking about souls?”

Balthazar barely pauses, but Adam sees that moment of realization when the knife stops in the pear before Balthazar continues cutting.

“Because you’re a delicate flower and I’ve been curious to study the effects when the mind forgets itself. Does the soul forget as well?”

Huh. That sounded like a load of bull; an interesting load, though.

Adam watches the angel dissect the pear and place the remaining slices onto Adam’s plate when it’s clear Balthazar’s disinterested in eating anymore. Adam doesn’t touch them.

“Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately: you are so _very_ delicate.”

Adam snorts a laugh and reminds himself it was rude to kick people you’d just met in the shins.

“You study souls?”

Balthazar spreads his hands with a smile.

“Aren’t we all scholars?”

“They said I’m an intern in this town. I was hoping Raphael could jog my memory of what I’d forgotten. I don’t think this is going to help me.” Adam motions between Balthazar and himself.

“Well, Sunny, I can only help you if you want to be helped. But I don’t jog.”

“… What do you need to do?”

Balthazar points at Adam’s chest.

“I’ll need to take a look.”

Adam looks him over, glances at the angel’s empty hands.

“I don’t see your stethoscope.”

Balthazar smiles in that indulgent way, but this time it doesn’t grate on Adam as badly.

“I won’t need one of those to see into your soul.”

Adam’s not sure about that proposal.

“Is that… safe?”

“Trust me. I’ve been doing this since before your _grandparents’_ ancestor’s first ape, when the first souls were being conceived; it’s perfectly straightforward.”

A charge goes through the air, like the snap of electricity and Adam swallows at the tall, severe-looking woman who’s suddenly standing in the back entrance to the kitchen.

Adam’s going to guess that’s Raphael.

“Balthazar,” she growls.

The blond angel turns in his seat to greet the woman with a fond smile.

“Darling. How nice of you to join us. I knew you’d be running late, so I’ve been speaking to young Sunny here—“

“Adam,” said man insists again.

“You were not cleared for this,” Raphael says, voice low and carefully reined, but from the look in her dark eyes, Adam half-expects Balthazar’s head to be torn from his shoulders.

“I took the initiative,” Balthazar says, turning back to Adam with a smile suggesting he fully intended to ignore the withering glare narrowed at the back of his head.

“Leave us,” Raphael says.

Adam looks at Balthazar in alarm. The guy may have been aggravating in his own way, but he wasn’t nearly as terrifying as this woman and Adam _really_ didn’t want to be left alone with her.

Unfortunately for him, Balthazar defers, rising from his seat with a sigh as Raphael joins them at the table and narrows that dark, judgmental look at Adam instead.

This would be a great moment for an intervention, Adam thinks, calling up the image of his brothers, Bobby, Michael – anyone.

Balthazar stops at Raphael’s side, close enough to murmur against the ebony hair falling to her shoulders, and Adam notices that she stiffens, lines of her face sharpening as though every muscle has pulled tight in restraint.

“I’ll save you a drink,” he says, hand barely settling on her arm before her head snaps around to him.

“Leave!”

Adam jumps at the crack of thunder outside the window, the hum of the fridge whines down for a moment as the skies dim, but then Balthazar is pulling his hands back, raising an eyebrow with a look of exasperation and he nods at Adam.

“Always good to see you, Sunny. Don’t forget to ask your questions.”

Raphael looks at Adam sharply.

“What questions?”

Adam shakes his head quickly.

“Nothing.”

“Be nice, darling,” Balthazar reminds the other angel.

 _“Leave us now.”_

Although Adam really doesn’t want to be left alone with her, he doesn’t want to see an angel death match go down in his kitchen either.

“Maybe you should go,” Adam suggests and Balthazar holds his hands up in surrender.

“All right, all right, I know when to make my exit.”

Balthazar disappears without fanfare or a whisper of sound and just as Raphael turns the complete, terrifying span of her attention on Adam, Sam sticks his head around the corner of the staircase and Michael steps through the back door, looking concerned.

Adam doesn’t think he’s ever been more relieved in his life.

“What’s – oh.” Sam sees Raphael and answers his own question.

This time when Michael comes around the table, Adam’s grateful for the hand that settles on his shoulder and Michael’s thumb brushes across the hair at his nape. Adam has a feeling that Raphael is the sort of doctor horror stories were made of.

-*-

Half an hour later, Adam’s walking into town with Sam and Raphael and it’s not half as bad as he expects.

Well, Adam can only speak for himself, but there’s a strange tension in the air between Sam and Raphael that has nothing to do with the lingering charge from yesterday’s storm.

“So,” Adam breathes out steadily and cracks a smile between them.

Raphael’s expression is cold and suspiciously narrowed at Sam as they walk, her stride ramrod straight and professional by Adam’s side. He shrinks back when she turns those large, dark eyes on him, but he manages not to lose his smile.

“Uni Ville, huh?” Adam’s voice cracks, just a little. “It was awesome of you to come all the way and join us out here, Raphael. I mean, I personally really appreciate it – I didn’t know angels were also trained in human medicine.”

Not that Raphael had used any said training.

“We don’t need your methods,” Raphael interrupts, flatly, and looks him over with thinly veiled contempt. Was that a personal comment or an attitude to ‘human methods’ in general? Funny how her true side seemed to be coming out now that Michael was out of the room. “I was the highest of our healers.”

Adam makes a polite sound of interest and notes her use of the past tense.

If she _was_ , implying she no longer _is_ , then why was she the choice to look Adam over?

Raphael didn’t _look_ like a doctor, or even a traditional healer… and Adam has to admit to himself, he was expecting some sort of hippie or casually-dressed, relaxed individual. Not this woman who marched with her chin in the air and dressed like a corporate power player, like someone who stepped out of the office and drove their supercar down from the big city to this unincorporated town to attend to Adam.

She didn’t look excited about it either, about Adam, or this place.

Adam saw the way she deferred to Michael, tight-lipped, but respectful, although if he was honest, disdain still thinned her mouth as she had taken Michael’s order and asked Adam to let her examine him, her hands trailing with the lightest touch. She hadn’t even asked him to lift his shirt.

Raphael had pressed her hand to his forehead and laid her other palm to his heart, expression focused in concentration, and if Adam hadn’t known she was an angel, he would have thought she was just taking his temperature (and he’d have to tell her that she was doing it wrong). Then again, knowing Raphael was an angel didn’t clear his confusion: he hadn’t felt anything, nothing glowed or stung and, at the end of it, when Raphael pulled her hands back and declared he was ‘fine’, Adam still had no idea if she had done anything.

Michael hadn’t looked very impressed with that response, either, and drew her aside for a murmured discussion at the end of the hall.

Michael and Raphael. Adam thought Raphael was a man’s name.

His brothers had come downstairs at that point and Sam had announced they were going to walk into town. Adam felt fine and he was _dying_ to get out of the house and see the rest of this place.

Bobby had gestured at Michael with his mug of coffee, like that meant something, until Michael declared he had paperwork he had to complete in the study.

 _“I’ll look after him,”_ Sam had promised, nodding at Adam, and Raphael smiled in amusement.

 _“And who will look after you?”_

Adam led the way out the door before Sam could reply. He didn’t get the impression that Raphael liked any of them very much.

Five minutes later, Sam has his hands in his pockets and walks at Adam’s other side, not even attempting to support Adam’s efforts at small talk. When Adam glances his way, Sam gives him a bright, civil smile that says everything from _yeah, it is a good morning_ to _you’re doing a great job chatting up that angel_ , but just keeps walking. Adam sees him check his phone before sliding it back in the pocket of his jeans and wrestles the fleeting urge to grab it from him, forcing him to join the conversation.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Adam tries again as they crest the hill on the grass, soft soil sinking beneath their boots.

Raphael doesn’t even look at him.

“I mean, it means a lot to me – having all of you guys here. Showing up so quickly.”

“Michael requested it. He is still my General.”

Adam thinks of his conversation that morning with Michael over breakfast. Somehow, he just wasn’t seeing the guy who cut him fruit armoured in silver and with a spear at the devil’s throat.

“So… you’re _the_ Raphael?”

Raphael arches a sharp eyebrow and stares at him with one of those looks that bored into him, _I cannot fathom the depths of your stupidity_ without breaking her stride.

“Do you know of another?”

Adam just shakes his head.

“No two angels are named the same. Our names are our essence, the seal of our grace, but these are only the names you humans can perceive. An angel’s _true_ name is something your feeble tongues couldn’t possibly wrap around, or withstand to hear. Our glory would shatter you.”

True names....?

“Not Adam,” Sam speaks up suddenly and Adam looks at him in surprise. “He’s one of the few who can hear and see your true forms.”

True forms, huh? He thinks of large white wings and polished armour, wondering how human angels really looked beneath their skin.

Raphael looks at Adam with interested speculation.

“Is that so?”

“Lucky me?” Adam shrugs, but Raphael’s words are making him wrack his brain for something else Michael said at breakfast. He’d given Adam his name?

“Perhaps we should be sure,” Raphael says, dark and curious.

Adam does _not_ like the way she looks at him then, like a scientist peering through a microscope with abstract curiosity. That kind of detachment was dangerous for the subject under the scope.

Adam breaks Raphael’s gaze and nervously sidles closer to his brother.

“Maybe you want to ask Michael? I could call him right now,” Sam offers, holding up his phone.

It does the trick. Raphael draws back, expression sour, and Adam throws his brother a look of relief.

Sam raises his eyebrows and sighs with a shrug that tells Adam this sort of thing happened all the time. Raphael was unnerving and Adam found himself hoping her normal workplace and residence were far, far away.

He has questions about Michael, questions that would probably be best asked of Raphael, but she was scary and Adam doesn’t want to ask his brother while she’s still there.

He sticks close to Sam.

“So, how well do you know this town?” Adam asks.

Sam looks ahead, nodding slowly.

“Well enough to keep us from getting lost.”

“Your town is one street. Becoming lost would be difficult,” Raphael says, deadpanned.

Sure enough, from what Adam can see, there’s a long line of buildings backed out onto the nature reserves they’re climbing. White or red and bricked in most places, there are a few newer and taller structures peaking above the rest, but as Raphael said, all in single file.

“It branches off in a few places,” Sam counters.

Raphael stares at him.

“One street, Samuel.”

“It’s ‘Sam’.”

Adam sighs and thanks the powers above when they finally arrive at the junction with the main street.

Adam looks left. He looks right.

That was one _long_ street.

“Why don’t you show me where I work?” Adam asks his brother, noticing the dark looks passing between him and the angel.

“Sure.”

“As my escort is no longer required here, I’ll be leaving,” Raphael says, raising her chin and she’s gone before Adam can even think of a polite goodbye.

“She’s fast,” he says.

“If she was going to blink out of here like that, she should have done it back down the road,” Sam says and leans in, with a conspiratorial whisper. “Nobody here knows about angels, so we try to teach them how to blend in. Walking through doors--”

“Not disappearing in the middle of the street,” Adam adds, “I think she needs a follow-up program.”

“Raphael’s difficult. I can’t tell if she does it on purpose, or she doesn’t care.”

“I think she hates me.”

“It’s not just you; Raphael hates everyone.” Sam pauses as they walk past a shoe store boasting its establishment since 1901. “Probably some of us more than others.”

“What’s her problem with Michael?”

“Oh. That’s….”

Adam rolls his eyes; he can guess the answer by now.

“Complicated?”

Sam smiles at him apologetically, but then he surprises Adam by continuing.

“They’re brothers.”

Adam stares at him, confused. Unless those twins were artificial and there was more going on beneath those office pants than Adam could see, ‘brothers’ might not have been the right word.

Thankfully, Sam seems to understand why Adam’s stumped before he’s even reached the punch line.

“Brothers, sisters. They don’t have genders like we do – they’re not even really siblings in the way we are. But we first met Raphael when she was in a man’s vessel… anyway, she had to find a new one.”

Adam takes a moment to consider what the hell Sam was talking about and eventually files it away under things too strange and confusing to think about right now.

“… So, what’s her problem with Michael?”

Sam sighs.

“From what I know, they had to run everything upstairs for a long time: just the two of them. They were close.”

“Were?” Adam frowns.

“They had a falling out. It was an accident at first – the wrong information fed to the wrong people at the wrong time and Raphael thought Michael had turned on him. Her. She’s not the sort of person who waits for an explanation.”

Adam can understand, though he had just met the woman, she smacked of impatient entitlement and unwavering righteousness.

“But they’re still talking, that’s good,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s something. Actually, that’s the most I’ve heard her say in a single conversation, so good job. Usually she just turns up, threatens us, and starts kicking people around.”

“Dude! She’s an angel, how does she get away with that?”

Sam shrugs with regret.

“Angels aren’t what most people think they are. I think, for a long time, Michael just let her do what she wanted as long as she followed orders. He didn’t care how she got the job done.”

Adam wants to know more about exactly what Raphael did, but he’s hanging onto that comment about Michael, because....

“Michael sounds like a douche.”

Sam laughs, abruptly.

“Oh, that’s not even the tip of the iceberg, Adam. He was worse.”

Sam’s last words are bitter and quiet and Adam feels empathy, trying to imagine what it must have been like when Adam brought home someone his brothers clearly hadn’t been that excited about.

“I know I don’t know him that well, but… he’s been really nice to me.” Adam shakes his head with a confused shrug. “Is that an act? Is he unbalanced?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the case,” Sam says, “He does care about you. He changed.”

“… Because of me?”

“Well, it definitely wasn’t _me_. We were trying to keep him the hell away from you, but you were so convinced you could get through to him.”

Adam sighs. It didn’t sound like the ideal or even healthiest situation, but it’s good to know it had worked. He gestures widely at a loss.

“Do you remember what I did? How did I tangle with him, anyway? Do angels just hang around at the college libraries looking for company?”

Sam thinks about it for a long moment, but Adam wonders if it really takes him so long to remember, or was Sam just being delicate with his words?

“I guess you could say… he knew the family. You guys didn’t meet under great circumstances. I don’t know what was going through your head: one day you were on our side, then you had doubts, and eventually you’d become his advocate. You were spending a lot of time together, so it was probably inevitable.”

Adam blinks at the underwhelming account.

“Huh. Must have been meant to be.”

He wrings it out with sarcasm, but he misses Sam’s involuntary wince, covered up with a tight smile by the time he glances up at his giant brother’s face.

They walk on.

-*-

They find the clinic near the centre of the long street: it’s one of the newer buildings, a single storey block with white walls, a ramp leading up the side for the handi-capable and reasonable opening hours posted under the large sign of ‘general surgery’.

“I am so screwed.” Adam shakes his head miserably.

Sam looks at him, his hands in his pockets.

“We’ll figure something out, Adam.”

“But I can’t remember anything, man, _anything_. I don’t remember the first day I sat in class at med school, or even the first time I held a scalpel. I wouldn’t know where to find my stethoscope – it’s gotta be somewhere at the house, but if I had to treat anyone, I’d be guessing!”

Sam glances around them because they aren’t the only ones on the street. A young couple pushing a stroller even wave their way, smiling brightly, and Sam waves back before leaning in to mutter in his brother’s ear.

“I know you’re freaking out right now, but you’ve got to calm down. Take a few deep breaths; these people look up to you and you’re _still_ you. Word spreads fast in small towns. Give us a chance to figure this out, please, Adam.”

Adam stares at the window with its white blinds where he can see the waiting room and he shakes his head again.

“I don’t know where to start.”

 _“Adam.”_

Adam looks up into his brother’s determined expression.

“Stop freaking out,” Sam says, slowly. “Give us a chance. We’ve got your back.”

Adam searches his brother’s face and Sam doesn’t falter. It’s hard not to be steadied by that: if Sam wasn’t flinching, he had reason to believe they could do something about Adam’s situation and Adam wants to believe it, too. After two long seconds, Adam finds himself nodding.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam squeezes his shoulder and nods at one of the stores down the street.

“Come on, why don’t we pick something up for dinner while we’re here?”

“Why not?” Adam shrugs, happy to let somebody else with a clue lead the way.

This really sucked.

He looks back at the clinic and feels intensely grateful it was a Saturday. He doesn’t know who covered for him yesterday, or how they let him get away with being the only doctor in town, but it seemed like he had a few days to come up with a strategy before facing the music.

Sam leads them into a gourmet deli.

It’s not a large store, but it looks bigger on the inside. There are shelves on both sides with jars and bottles of olive oils, dried meats, jams, and chutneys, more things than Adam can catalog before his attention is drawn back to the front of the glass display lined with different types of meats, at least five types of cheeses in varying towers and he almost walks into the lines of sausages hanging from the ceiling.

There’s a cool, spicy aroma in the store’s air and Adam blinks at the sheer amount of food packed into every available space.

“Wow. Got meat?” he muses, looking over the display before glancing at his brother who’s doing the same. “You guys aren’t vegetarian, are you?”

Sam actually laughs before shaking his head.

“No way, never had the luxury, man.”

Adam nods, grateful that their job’s been made that much easier, as he goes back to inspect the displays.

“But your boyfriend’s a vegan,” Sam says and Adam can hear the smile in his voice.

Adam’s entire body goes stiff and he glares at the cheese tower behind the glass. Great. Of course Michael was a vegan. So much for an easy job of gathering….

Sam snickers and gestures at the display.

“He doesn’t mind us eating in front of him, so get whatever you like. I think he only eats to blend in, angels don’t need to eat like we do. Castiel likes beef burgers, but that’s something residual from his vessel Jimmy.”

Adam looks at him.

“Vessel?”

Sam brakes like he’s come to an epiphany and steps up to the glass with sudden interest.

“… Yeah. Hey, what about this smoked… what is, this, pepperoni?”

It’s at that moment the man serving the counter turns around from the chopping block and regards them with a wide smile. He’s not overly tall, his brown hair is combed back, but he has strange, gold eyes that oddly remind Adam of Michael when he looks between his two new customers.

“Spanish chorizo! Using the recipe from the court of the royal Spanish chef herself, you can use it in pastas, on a platter with cheese, but it has plenty of character, so it’s not for the faint-hearted,” the man tells them enthusiastically and spreads his arms wide as though to suggest _they_ are the faint-hearted.

Adam’s glad he’s not the only one staring.

“Um…” He blinks, stunned.

He hears Sam sigh.

“Really, Gabriel? Didn’t you make us eat that last week?”

Adam glances between Sam’s exasperated look and the other man – Gabriel’s – broad grin that makes Adam think he’s struggling not to laugh.

“Oh, you two know each other.” Adam realizes Sam must come to town more often than he let on.

Sam rolls his eyes and looks at his brother.

“He doesn’t actually work here.”

“What?” Did Adam hear him right?

Gabriel shrugs and pats down his borrowed store apron.

“Hey, you called and I came,” he says.

“Get out of there.” Sam gestures with his head to indicate their side of the counter.

Gabriel throws the apron to the side with a flourish and raises the counter bench at the end, sweeping through as though he were a matador expecting Sam to rear back. Sam treats him with that same long-suffering, but suspiciously affectionate, raised eyebrow look and Gabriel finally drops the stance.

“What? Aren’t you happy to see me?” Gabriel rolls his eyes.

Sam snickers softly and, to Adam’s surprise, reaches over to draw the man in, holding his face.

“No, I am,” Sam says and leans down to kiss him.

“Wow, okay,” Adam blurts, looking anywhere but the two of them when Gabriel hums laughter and pulls Sam closer with hands in his jacket.

Adam looks between the shelves, the glass cabinet, and the door in the space of a moment and makes the split-second decision.

“I’m gonna give you the room.”

Sam chooses to resurface then.

“Oh, Adam, wait – I want you to meet Gabriel!”

Adam manages an awkward smile that feels like more of a grimace and nods at the guy.

“Hi.” He half-heartedly waves at Gabriel with the hand still in his jacket pocket.

Gabriel detaches from Sam and covers the two steps between them, holding out his hand.

“Adam—“

Adam’s eyes go wide when Gabriel abruptly pulls him into a tight hug, clapping him on the back. He’s grinning, smug and mischievous, when he draws back and his hands stay on Adam’s shoulders.

“—You don’t know this yet, but I’m your best friend. We’re going to get along just fine.”

Adam looks suspiciously from Gabriel to his brother, but Sam just shrugs with a helpless smile. Adam has a feeling he’s on his own.

“Sure.”

Gabriel chuckles, shaking his shoulder with surprising strength.

“Do you like wine, Adam?”

-*-

Bobby’s on hold to one of his contacts in academic places when he coughs wetly, the motion catching in his throat.

Michael looks up from his hunch over the papers Dean’s had him studying for the last hour and frowns at Bobby.

“You should take something,” the angel says.

“Got my black label, a glass every night,” Bobby says. “Sometimes more.”

Michael’s expression twitches with the barest hint of annoyance, but he focuses on the notes scattered on the corner desk before them.

On the double computer monitors, Sam had set up some sort of system scan to search for theories and accounts of similar cases that could help them. Michael doesn’t think he’ll find anything that will be relevant to their case that way; there weren’t many incidences of escaping the cage with human vessels that had been documented in human record.

“I will do something about that, if you won’t.” Michael significantly eyes Bobby’s chest and the flu stirring in him.

“Sure thing, Doc.”

“Bobby,” Michael warns.

“Mikey.”

 _“Robert.”_

 _“Feathercake.”_

“Ladies.” Dean clears his throat, looking up from the papers in his lap. He’s reclining in the office chair, boots kicked up on the desk and Michael forgets to push them off. “Can we please leave the nursing to Doctor Sexy?”

“Dean, that show ended two years ago, you know,” Bobby says, earning a sharp look from the younger man.

“Do I need to let Mike hold you down and feed you something colourful from Adam’s med-kit?”

“You’re a traitor and a soap junkie, kid.”

“Guilty for giving a damn.” Dean surrenders with his hands.

Michael smiles to himself, leaving the decision to Bobby for now and returning to the newspapers.

But this is pointless.

He doesn’t notice the message that flashes across the monitors of Sam’s search, blinking red with success, before it’s overwritten by the brute force of the search effort and consumed once more by the green bar of progress.

What Michael needs is to speak with an angel.

-*-

It turns out that Adam is well known in town, which comes with its own benefits of local discounts in almost every store. To Gabriel’s delight and Adam’s vocal protests, Mister Palmer, the local vineyard owner doesn’t let them leave his storefront until they’re carrying out two free bottles of his latest harvest and some kind of oil derived from grapes that could go with anything from bread to ice cream.

Gabriel takes two, despite Adam’s discomfort at Mister Palmer’s showers of thanks for how well Adam treated his wife earlier that week in his clinic.

Although Adam was eager to see the town, it comes with many faces and names Adam will never remember, but they all, unfortunately, know him and call out to him across the street with warm smiles, waves, and thanks that build the pressure on Adam’s shoulder until he’s fallen into step behind Sam hoping his taller brother will obscure him from view. No luck there, it seems, because Sam is just as recognizable for the townsfolk, even though Sam claims he hasn’t visited in months.

Adam can’t retreat back to the cottage soon enough.

When they finally make their way back, it’s early afternoon and he doesn’t know how the three of them have filled their arms with paper bags with more food, drink, and rope (how? Why? Adam doesn’t even know) than they could use in a week.

Adam can’t ever remember seeing this much food in his house growing up, even at Christmas gatherings with his four extended relatives the one time they were all in town.

Gabriel shrugs as Adam surveys their hoard on the kitchen table. The shock must show on his face.

“Country towns, what’re you gonna do?” Gabriel shrugs, with a pleased smirk.

What the hell were they going to do with all this food?

-*-

It turns out that Gabriel considered himself a culinary connoisseur.

He gives Adam a large knife, sets Sam to peeling potatoes, and stands over the table working together some complicated herbal concoction in which Adam only recognizes rosemary and thyme among the seven or so plants that get thrown in.

Sam complains under his breath that Gabriel has an easier way to reach their end. Adam doesn’t really understand.

“I never want to see another spud in my life,” Sam sighs, throwing it in the half-filled sink with water beside Adam’s post with the chopping board. “How many people are you expecting?”

Adam glances back at Gabriel, knife poised over his mountain of carrots.

“We’re having guests? Are Raphael and Balthazar coming back?”

Gabriel laughs abruptly, measuring what looks like a bunch of sage in his hands.

“Unlikely. Raphael still isn’t talking to me.”

“Oh.” Adam looks at Sam for clues, but his brother is too busy attacking a particularly large potato in hand with determination. Adam’s curious, he’s wary, he’s not sure he would know what to do with every person’s long and heavy history if they laid it out for him. He has a feeling he woke up in the middle of their crossroads and he was barely dodging the stampede of everyone trying to find their way around him.

“What about Balthazar?” Adam asks. “He won’t come without Raphael?”

Gabriel grinds his experiment in the large mortar and pestle he found in Adam’s cupboard.

“He works for Raphael. I wouldn’t bet that she'll let him out of the office, there’s always more work to do.” Gabriel stops, looking up with a thoughtful expression. “He might play hooky if Cas invited him, though.”

“Cas is coming?” Adam asks, making a face when Sam’s potato lands in the sink with a large enough splash to catch him on the chin.

“We don’t do Sunday dinner, we’re scattered in too many directions. Too many ways and places to return by Monday,” Gabriel says.

“So, family tries to get together on Saturdays?” Adam asks.

“I don’t think we’ve sat down to eat together since….” Sam looks back over his shoulder to Gabriel with a thoughtful expression and Gabriel shrugs a shoulder.

“Since we moved out with you.”

Sam’s expression softens with understanding and there’s something sad Adam finds about the way his brother looks down at the vegetable and peeler in his hands. He forgets to ask about Gabriel’s use of the ‘we’ reference and wonders instead why Sam’s moving out with Gabriel had been such a sore spot.

The grind of mortar and pestle starts up again and Sam sighs, letting the moment pass.

“Okay, do you want me to finish this whole bag?” Sam asks the angel directing them. “You guys don’t eat, why are we cooking this much?”

Gabriel’s smirk lifts the mood almost immediately, easy and placid.

“Because you love me.”

Adam snickers when Sam’s shoulders sag and he turns back to his work obediently. He was so whipped.

“That’s not a reason,” Adam chuckles under his breath.

“It’s the only one that matters,” Gabriel says, suddenly at his shoulder, and Adam jumps.

Gabriel just smiles at him and rubs Sam’s shoulder, placing a kiss there.

“That’s enough, babe. You can stop.”

The peeler gets thrown in the water with the rest of the potatoes and Sam mutters some thanks to the baby Jesus. He starts washing his hands, it’s late afternoon and they’ve been at this for some hours now. Gabriel was a slave driver, but he seemed adamant on using every scrap of food from the afternoon’s take, though Adam has no idea if they had any hope of finishing it.

“You too, kid,” Gabriel tells Adam, slapping him on the back, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Thanks,” Adam sighs in relief and takes the towel Sam hands him when he’s finished washing up.

“You’re probably feeling tired,” Gabriel says, looking him over, and Adam considers it.

“I am, actually.” He’s surprised he hadn’t realized it until now when he stopped and saw the way the sun was coming in the window. It was later in the afternoon than he thought.

“Your room’s upstairs. I can wake you when we’re done, if you want to put your head down,” Sam offers. “It’ll be a few hours.”

Something occurs to Adam.

“I haven’t seen the other guys all afternoon. What are they doing?”

“Paperwork,” Sam says.

“Taxes,” Gabriel supplies at the same time.

They glance at each other, the corner of Gabriel’s mouth lifting in one of his impish grins and Adam decides to leave it.

“I’m going upstairs.”

“Thanks for your help,” Sam says when Adam passes him and waves it off, it was no problem. Many hands make light work and all of that. He’d spent the last hour chopping vegetables. Was it only an hour? And why was he _so_ tired?

He stares at the door to the study when he climbs the last step of the staircase. He considers knocking, going in to see how they were all handling their tax paperwork, and if that’s in fact what had kept them out of the kitchen all afternoon. He wonders if they’re actually crowded around that corner desk playing poker at odd angles and drinking whiskey, but the heavy weight in his bones wins and he decides that he’s not curious enough.

The door to the bedroom whines on its hinges when he goes in. The bed is made, the curtains open; the room is empty.

Then he spots the laptop on the desk.

He shuts the bedroom door as quietly as he can behind him.

-*-

“So, if you’re here,” Sam begins, looking carefully at the angel grinding herbs at the table, “Who’s with him?”

The grind of stone on stone stops.

“We’re taking it in shifts. Raphael’s watching him when I’m not around.”

Sam curses under his breath, pushing away from the counter.

“Is that such a good idea?”

“She’s not speaking to me.”

“What about _him_?”

Gabriel smirks, but it’s humourless.

“We shouldn’t leave them alone for too long.”

-*-

When Adam was in pre-med, he and his friends had a scheme.

It came to them after one late night with too many drinks, every kind of pizza, and the denial of major assignments due around the corner.

Sitting on the bed with the computer in his lap, Adam finds the hidden folder marked ‘ICE’ within the root directory of his documents.

He really did it. _Thank God._

It’s large with a list of at least twenty videos appearing when he opens it. They’re numbered and dated, the last is from the previous year and there are gaps ranging from days to months between the video files. The gaps get longer as the files grow later.

He wonders why he hasn’t updated it lately. Part of his strategy had been to update every three months if he ever started this.

The mouse cursor hovers over the earliest video dated from November 2011.

Adam takes a deep breath and opens it.

 _“Hey.”_

It’s him. It’s Adam.

He’s sitting in an unfamiliar room with cheap mustard curtains and seventies striped wallpaper of browns, yellow, and faded cream. There are laminated signs posted on the door visible over his shoulder and Adam thinks it could be a motel room.

His video self looks hesitant, studying the laptop’s keyboard. There are faint shadows under his eyes and his skin is pale, like he pulled a few late nights before he took out the computer and started recording.

 _“Never thought I’d actually need to do this.”_ He sits back in his seat and looks into the camera. _“If you’re watching this… me, I mean… you, Adam – and I hope it’s just you – it means something’s gone wrong. If you’re watching it for the reason I made it, it’s probably because you don’t remember.”_

He sighs, eyes shutting for a second before he looks into the camera again, face grim.

 _“I wish you didn’t have to know this life. I’m sorry, man, but it’s going to be your life soon. The life I woke up to in twenty fourteen—“_

Adam, the real Adam watching the video, frowns and looks at the file date: 2011. What was going on?

His video self is still talking.

 _“—you say, so this next bit is really, really important: don’t freak out. If you keep cool and do exactly as I say, you might get through what’s coming so you can sit down and make your own survival manual for the next round. I don’t know how many times this has happened. I found the logs waiting for me and now I’m making my own for you. When I’m done, and it’s your turn, I suggest you do the same. Some things probably change, but the end remains the same: one day not too far away you’re going to get kicked back to 2011, if you’re not already here, and it’s going to suck so bad. But don’t freak out.”_

Adam shoves the laptop away on the bed, a cold feeling clenching in his chest.

He stares at the still image of himself for a long time, slouched in that wooden chair, weary and resigned.

He’s thankful that nobody’s around to confirm or deny how well he keeps his calm after that.

-*-

Dean looks up when the knock comes at the study door. He gestures to Bobby and Michael who both slide their papers together and Bobby pulls the computer’s keyboard closer to himself.

He hadn’t had much luck on the electronic front, though.

“It’s open,” Dean says.

Gabriel sticks his head in, grinning around at them and Dean’s surprised to see him. He’s even more surprised the angel didn’t just appear unannounced like he usually did; Sam must have been having an effect on him after all.

“Well, here’s trouble,” Bobby says, pushing the keyboard away.

“Gabriel.” Michael sounds as surprised as Dean feels.

“I missed you too, doll face.” Gabriel winks at Bobby, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

There’s something on the air that follows Gabriel into the study. It’s warm and fragrant: meat and crunchy potatoes and a wandering pinprick of _home_ that he learned crowded around diner tables with Sam and his Dad on the odd Sunday.

“What’s that smell?” Dean asks.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow at him.

“That’s the fruit of hard work. You sent your brothers into town and thought I’d let them come back empty-handed? What have you clowns been up to all afternoon?”

Dean had no idea that Gabriel was even in town, but then, the angel never called ahead. It was small comfort that at least that hadn’t changed.

“Did Sam tell you what happened?” Bobby asks.

Gabriel’s hands settle on his hips and Dean sees the look he steals at Michael, quick and assessing, before he nods in answer to Bobby’s question. Dean wonders it’s no surprise Sam couldn’t, or maybe wouldn’t, keep anything from the angel who saved his life.

“I dropped him off. Of course he told me. Adam looks like he’s taking it in stride. So, what have you been doing about it?”

Bobby sighs, throwing a hand up at the papers strewn around the desk, at the half-open filing cabinet that he and Dean had spent half the afternoon leafing through. Nothing but ordinary files and a very special gun beneath it all. A gun with very special bullets, but that wasn’t going to give them any answers for this.

“I got bupkiss,” Bobby admits.

Gabriel frowns, looking between them again. Michael’s folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall by the window, but he hasn’t made a move to join the conversation and Dean wonders what he’s waiting for, how long it’s been since these two brothers were in the same room.

“What are you looking for?” Gabriel asks.

“We have to tell him,” Michael finally says and he’s looking hard at Dean, expecting him to agree.

Bobby nods when Dean looks to him and, hell, soon everyone was going to know. What the hell? They’d burned an entire day in this closet of a study with nothing to show for it but back cramps and bad tempers.

“Adam didn’t just wake up without his memory,” Dean says, glancing at the door Gabriel’s leaning against, as though Adam could be on the other side listening. It’s stupid, but he lowers his voice anyway. “He was fresh out of the cage.”

Gabriel looks at Dean as though he’s counted from one to ten and missed half the numbers.

“What?”

“That isn’t Adam from our time. The Adam who walked into town with Sam was jumped from the cage less than five days ago,” Bobby says.

The suspicious look on Gabriel’s face morphs into rage so quickly Dean thinks he’s going to fly at them.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice has dropped to a growl and he cuts a dark look at his brother. “What about _you – were you even thinking_? You left Sam alone with that?”

“Raphael was with them,” Michael says, hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders hunch. Dean doesn’t think Michael means for his guilt to show, but it’s hard to miss the way he draws in on himself. The day the angel stopped wearing clothes with pockets he’d be in trouble.

That only makes Gabriel angrier and Dean can’t blame him; it wasn’t his favourite course of action, either, but Michael trusted Raphael and Dean trusted Michael. Funny how a few years made that even possible.

“Castiel healed him,” Bobby interrupts before Gabriel and Michael can start tearing the room apart, “Adam doesn’t remember the cage or anything about how he got to this point in his life. He’s safe. _We’re_ safe.”

 _We think_ , Dean mentally adds and has to admit that maybe he trusts a little too much in what worked for Sam would also keep Adam together. He hopes they’re safe.

It takes him a moment to realize that Gabriel is still talking, sharp accusation narrowed at Michael.

“—didn’t you? You used your name.”

“It was still there when I looked, yes. Castiel sealed it in.”

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Bobby interrupts again and Dean’s glad somebody else asked the stupid question because he wasn’t following either. “You’ve talked about these ‘names’ before—“

“Our true names,” Gabriel says. “The ones Dad gave us. We’ve had plenty through human history, even different ones used between the angels, but there’s one that only Dad knows.”

“So, why’s your true call sign so important?” Dean asks.

“It’s our way home. It’s our surviving link with God. Without our names, we’re not angels, we may as well just be another souped-up supernatural with wings,” Gabriel says.

“Wait, wait, wait—“ Dean holds up his hands for silence and points at the two angels. “Does this have anything to do with why you can’t return to Heaven? I thought that was just because God was punishing you in his own special way for not staying down.”

“Nothing can enter Heaven without its true name, no angel, human, nothing. No exceptions – and it’s not because they’re a pack of jerks, it’s just the nature of the beast,” Gabriel says.

“Did you know this would happen?” Bobby asks. He’s looking at Michael.

Michael shakes his head.

“Not for certain. But I’d heard stories.”

“Why the hell would you do it?” Dean asks.

He knows how much this place and Adam meant to the angel now, but why did that mean having to give up his name? Couldn’t he come back and visit from Heaven like Castiel did? Somehow, Dean doesn’t think his brother would have been happy with the arrangement if Michael visited as rarely as Castiel, but there was no way of telling how much of that was thanks to Heavenly regulation and how much was just Castiel being a dick (considering that Cas was rewriting the regulations, Dean’s not betting on the first option).

Gabriel snorts a laugh under his breath and he’s shaking his head with a knowing expression.

“Because he wanted to get out. You gave up your name in the cage. Didn’t you?”

Michael braces his hands on his hips as he straightens against the wall. Dean’s never heard this story before and he wonders how the hell that was possible for all the years he’d let this guy stand at his side. He’d just assumed Michael had escaped because the cage wasn’t meant for him, and a cage that only needed sixty-six of six _hundred_ -and-sixty-six broken might have been an easier feat for the guy who helped build it in the first place.

Dean was again assuming Michael had something to do with the cage’s construction, but for all he knew, it could have existed before Lucifer’s fall, maybe even before the angels, if anything did come before Heaven.

“After I was interned, I learned Crowley had refashioned the locks to bind Lucifer and I. He and I specifically. Somehow the demon had learned our true names—“

“Well, this is Crowley you’re talking about,” Bobby mutters under his breath.

Gabriel nods with a quirk of the mouth. Dean wouldn’t put it past the former trickster to have run into the former king of the crossroads and later king of hell in an older life.

“I had to lose my name,” Michael continues slowly. “So, I took my vessel, hid my name in his soul, and broke us out.”

There’s silence in the study for a few long moments. Finally, Dean shakes his head. It’s too neat, too simple.

“How does an angel _lose_ their name in the first place? You just set it down one day and forgot you told Adam to swallow?”

“It’s self-mutilation, Dean. It’s _not_ easy,” Gabriel answers, and Dean has a feeling that, for the first time, the angel didn’t appreciate his humor.

He remembers Anna and her story of cutting out her grace. He wonders if it’s the same, with all the efficiency of carving with a butter knife like she’d described, but he thinks it would be rude to ask.

“You did the same thing for Sam, didn’t you?”

Gabriel nods, a curious look creeping across his features as he looks to Michael.

“I got the idea from you.”

Michael shrugs, shaking his head.

“I only suspected it helped Adam after we saw him without it during the war. I believe it’s the reason why he was able to speak with us the first time he woke,” Michael says, looking to Dean. “But it wouldn’t have been enough. We needed Castiel’s help.”

Dean suspects Bobby is staring at the nails in the floorboards. He watches Bobby drum a beat on his knee, one, one-two-three. Dean imagines he would hear it if the quiet lasted long enough.

“So, that’s why you can’t go back to Heaven?” Dean asks.

Michael nods.

“But it’s this timing… this timing I don’t understand. Why did he end up here?”

Gabriel looks between the three of them.

“Again: what the hell have you guys been doing here all afternoon?”

Dean rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair and throws a hand to Bobby.

“Oh, you know: shooting the breeze, checking our fantasy football teams. Sure as hell not trying to figure out why Adam turned up here _now_ and who or what we’ve been dealing with for the last five years.”

Gabriel does a bang-up job of trying to look impressed.

“And you thought you were going to find the answer with their invoices?”

“We thought we might find a clue to _something_ ,” Bobby shoots back, challenging Gabriel to do better.

“I’ve told you, it was Adam. It _was_ him. The person with us, that’s Adam, too,” Michael says for the umpteenth time Dean’s heard it today.

But it’s one thing to be told and another thing to have hard evidence in front of him and there had been nothing Dean saw or documented over the years to suggest otherwise, despite how hard they looked and compared their recollections.

“And where’s today’s Adam?” Gabriel asks.

The silence rings again and Gabriel hums thoughtfully at the overwhelming response.

“All right, so my best friend just disappeared off the face of the planet and none of you assholes were going to tell me. Thanks.”

Dean’s fingers curl tightly under the edge of his chair. This was his brother Gabriel was talking about and he didn’t like the angel thinking he had a higher priority caring about Adam. Or Sam, for that matter.

“We thought it could be Lucifer. In the cage. We didn’t want to risk it with your connection,” he says, meeting Gabriel’s dark look with his own. His jaw flexes as he resists the urge to grind his jaw and he hears Bobby speak up.

“Can you help?”

Gabriel’s scowl barely lifts when he tears his glower from Dean to Bobby.

“Well here’s the bad news: it sounds like you’ve wasted a day of your lives you’re never getting back,” Gabriel says and Dean glares at him.

“And what’s the good news, Tinkerbell?”

“The good news is that dinner’s ready, there’s wine on the table and – Christ on a pyre, of course I’m going to help you, you morons! This is _my_ family, too! I should revoke your cable for not telling us earlier.”

“But, Gabriel—“ Michael starts, silenced by a sharp look of reprisal from his brother.

“I’m really surprised by you, bro. You’re supposed to go above and – whatever, forget it. I’ll look for Adam in the now. You guys figure out the rest. And if you need me, _call_ , like Sam did. I wouldn’t even be here right now if he hadn’t admitted he needed help.” Gabriel makes no attempt at subtlety with the look he points at Dean. “You could learn to take a few notes from your brother; maybe then you could hold onto your own angel, too.”

Gabriel may be a good ally and a better friend, but Dean’s running low on four hours of sleep for the second day in a row. He’s had a frustrating afternoon researching with nothing to show for it after seeing Sam for the first time in weeks and he had been stressing ever since about letting him go into town with _Raphael_ , of all people, and their jail-broken sibling who thought they were all crazy.

It’s been a shitty day and something in Dean snaps.

Bobby’s arm slams across Dean’s chest when he leaps out of his chair, fist pulled back, and he feels Michael’s hands on his shoulders, holding him fast.

“Hey, you know I’m right. I’m not saying it just to get a rise.” Gabriel smirks at him with a shrug.

“Dean. Dean, let it go,” Michael says when Dean lunges for him again.

The last time Dean tried to go after Gabriel, he ended up with a bullet in his back for his brief efforts. It doesn’t make Dean want to try any less.

And to think that Gabriel was usually Dean’s second favorite, the one who sympathized with Dean when their brothers were being a pain or too emotional to stomach. They’d stowed away a few kegs of beer together during the war in commiseration. They'd even sung songs about it (when the hours got late and the beer flowed more freely than usual).

“ _Dean_.” Bobby’s growl winds through the cloud of red and Dean realizes the man’s dropped his cane to keep his grip on him; that was bad news for his back. If only he’d let the angels heal him.

“Bobby, what the –“ The hands on Dean lift as he stoops to pick up Bobby’s walking cane and shove it back in his hand. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’d like some o’that roast I can smell before Gabriel stomps you through the floor,” Bobby shoots back, trembling with the strain of standing unsupported, and glares at Michael when the angel tries to help him. He leans heavily on his cane with both hands and breathes through his nose, tension vibrating in his arms.

Sam and Dean had joked about growing gray in this business, but it was so much harder watching Bobby’s slow decline. Bobby wasn’t even that old, but the years were catching up with him. God, Dean wishes the old man wasn’t so stubborn – not that _he_ could talk.

“It’s like Cas said: if they want to help, let ‘em,” Bobby says and Dean can’t stifle his wince at the angel’s name, at the exhaustion in Bobby’s voice.

He eventually nods.

“Okay,” Gabriel’s voice is bright with the breakthrough. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. In the meantime, I’ve got wine downstairs and dinner’s getting cold, so don’t wait up for me.”

The tension in Dean’s gut tentatively uncoils with the thought of a hot dinner and Bobby slaps his shoulder on the way past.

“C’mon, son. I need a beer.”

Dean lets out a defeated breath, finding that he has to agree. He definitely needed something to wash down the day’s disappointment.

“Gabriel,” Dean stops the angel before he leaves, noting that Michael’s taking his time putting away the papers on the desk. “Adam has no idea about any of this. As far as he knows, he’s just a med student who fell off the roof. And he has an angel looking over his shoulder, because Mike couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

He can practically feel the look of knives Michael throws at his back.

“Okay.” Gabriel glances over Dean’s shoulder and, although he’s hesitant, nods when he meets his eye again. “Okay, we’re being careful. No need to shock the kid until we have a good reason to break him, right?”

Dean frowns. He actually had no wish for that to happen, but he understands what Gabriel means.

“Right.”

Dean is grateful, for the dinner, for the concession, and he just hopes Gabriel will follow through with something to report, but with every other person who’s walked through this house, the secret’s become harder and harder to keep. There are just too many people to explain and Adam was too curious.

“Dean-o.” Gabriel’s voice lowers and he’s lost the humor when Dean looks back at him. “I’m sorry. But you’re not the righteous man anymore, so stop acting like it.”

It scolding, but gentle, and Dean recognizes the friend in Gabriel that he’d almost forgotten about since he and Sam went their own way.

“You’ve gotta forgive us,” Gabriel says, then tilts his head significantly, “And forgive yourself, too.”

Dean makes a face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He glances over his shoulder at Michael who was probably procrastinating with those papers by this point. There were only so many times they could be shuffled and lined, but it was polite of him to try ignoring them.

Gabriel’s hand closes tightly over Dean’s shoulder and his expression pulls into deep sympathy.

“When you hurt, I hurt. When you cry, _I_ cry for your ego. And when you take the world on your shoulders by yourself, I stick you in a never-ending audition of _So You Think You Can Dance_ until you say uncle and ask for help like you should have in the first place. Idiot.”

Dean turns back to Gabriel with a lazy smirk and rolls his shoulders through the tension gathering at Gabriel’s affectionate mockery. He gazes out the window above the staircase.

“It’s okay to admit you missed me, Gabriel.”

“I did miss catching your tears on my shoulder, Deanna.”

“I miss having my house to myself. Can I get past?” Michael asks, apparently done with the façade of ignorance. Gabriel and Dean exchange a smile, all forgiven for the moment, and Dean lets the angel clasp his shoulder once more before Michael closes the door behind him. They start on the way down for dinner and that’s the precise moment that the bedroom door swings open.

Adam appears, his face ashen, and he looks exhausted. Had something happened?

“Hey. You all right? Adam?” Dean asks as Michael brushes past him, beating Dean’s impulse to draw Adam aside, check the light in his eyes and maybe take his temperature.

“Are you all right?” Michael murmurs, an echo of Dean’s question, and as Dean watches them there’s a nagging doubt in his gut that he hasn’t felt for a while that something about the two of them doesn’t fit.

All these years, Michael and Adam had let him believe this thing about Michael’s name had happened as a result of Adam’s possession, like branding cattle. How had Michael fallen so hard for his youngest brother when he only gave his name over to break free? Was it just something that happened when angels gave that part of themselves to someone? Maybe it had been inevitable?

There is one thing Dean is almost certain of: five years ago, Adam started this relationship. Dean still finds it hard to believe that Adam convinced Michael to entertain the idea and to this day had chalked the success up to too long in confined quarters, but maybe there was more to it.

He looks at Gabriel, who’s taken his hand back, watching Adam and Michael hover in that doorway. Dean would have to ask him about that later.

“Yeah.” Adam’s saying and he’s removing Michael’s hands, pushing them back to his sides. “I—let’s eat.”

Gabriel falls in step with Adam when he starts down the stairs, smiling when Adam glances at him, but he doesn’t prompt him to speak and Adam lets him linger. In spite of the fact Gabriel could be a cocky bastard, Dean’s glad he’s here. He understood humans better than all the familiar company of angels combined and he had proven to be a good friend to all of them.

Dean stops Michael with a hand to his shoulder. He sympathizes with the concern in Michael’s face when Michael frowns, but Dean’s pretty sure Michael is just complicating the situation.

“Remember what I said about the couch?” Dean asks and understanding lights Michael’s features. “I let you off last night because Cas asked me to. I’m grateful for whatever you did because Adam’s not trying to run anymore, but tonight I mean it.” Dean pushes him hard in the muscle between shoulder and chest. “You’re on the couch.”

And it seems ridiculous that he should have to point this out to Michael, but the confusing way Michael leans away from him with a thin scowl suggests, apparently not.

Dean stops him again when he descends that first step.

“He’s not the guy you know, Mike. It isn’t right. You’re confusing him.”

The rigid tension seeps out of Michael’s shoulders and, although Dean doesn’t get verbal agreement before the angel continues on his way down, he feels like he won this one.

It would be so awesome if someone listened to him for a change.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Whatever you thought you knew about these guys? Forget it. Sam and Dean might break every law of physics to save each other, but only each other. If you drift in the tailwind of that, you’re just lucky._

_Castiel will not come for you if you call; trust me, I’ve tried._

_Anyone else I haven't mentioned - stay the hell away. There might be angels and friendly goblins spilling out of your pad there, but here in this time? You've got to assume they're an enemy or too fluid to be trusted. Which... brings me to Michael."_

Adam unbuttoned his flannel shirt, pushed up the cotton underneath. There was a dark, angry bruise the size of a fist fanning out between his ribs, it had barely missed his heart.

He chuckled, a bleak sound, and looked back into the camera.

_"This is how he says 'hello'. He's not the guy who brings you breakfast in bed. You're not a person to him, you're just a ride with an out-dated engine.”_

-*-

Adam’s quiet through dinner, staring off into space and pushing the last of his potatoes around on his plate while Gabriel, Dean and Bobby work their way through the roast, growing louder as the beer and wine come out.

Sam’s pretty sure that Dean hadn’t planned to drink tonight, or at least not to drink so much, but Dean with a full belly of hot, fresh meat was as good as drunk anyway, so when Gabriel challenges him to a line of shots, Dean’s judgment is already out the window.

Bobby’s reclined in his chair, a bottle on his knee and hand propping his head against the armrest. He probably doesn’t think that Sam notices the way he snickers to himself watching Dean and Gabriel race down the line of shot glasses. There’s lightness in him that Sam sees so rarely, it’s easy to forget Bobby had it in him.

Dean crows when he beats Gabriel to drink his last shot, pumping his fists in the air, and his face is flushed, eyes bright when he reaches over to high-five Sam. Sam can’t help laughing and wonders if Dean cares about the futility of trying to drink an angel under the table. An archangel, no less.

This was Gabriel: if he wanted to win, there was no way Dean was going to beat him.

Gabriel turns to his own brother next, sitting at the head of the table.

“C’mon, Michael, you and me.”

Michael lifts his head from his hand, blinking out of whatever daydream he’d wandered into, as Gabriel lines the two rows of shot glasses back up between them. Gabriel is smiling in a way that makes Sam curious because it means he has a plan and then Gabriel snaps his fingers and the shot glasses spark with blue flames.

Sam leans forward and he sees that even Adam has sat up and is paying attention now.

“… Should I ask?” Bobby looks from the cool silver liquid licking with blue, almost translucent fire, to the angels who are locked in a steady staring contest, daring, gauging the other’s nerve.

“You can ask,” Gabriel says without looking away.

“Is it poison?” Dean asks.

“It’s hellfire,” Sam says and then blinks; he hadn’t meant to say that. Dean, Bobby and Adam look at him in surprise and some of the glow has drained from their faces. Sam didn’t realise he knew that, but when he looks again at the two rows of eight, he remembers a black lake, silver riverbeds and flames on the water. He remembers it was worse than cold and burned before he’d even gotten close.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean says.

Gabriel almost cackles, clapping in triumph when Michael sits forward in his seat and reaches for one of the glasses.

“Hold on.” Sam’s hand closes around Gabriel’s knee and the angel looks at him, smile unshaken. “Is this safe?”

“One shot of this has more proof than a factory of Johnnie Walkers and every cactus in Mexico, but safe?” Gabriel shrugs and his grin is full of glee. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Is he serious?” Adam asks, quiet with disbelief.

“Is that silt? Is that hell dirt?” Sam nods significantly at the silver in Michael’s glass. He’s seen Gabriel throw back a lot of things over the last couple of years, but nothing like this, nothing out of Hell, and, honestly, he’s a little worried.

“It’s clean! It’s completely clean – Michael, come on.”

And before Sam can stop them, Gabriel and Michael have both tipped their heads back, blue flames disappearing in their mouths, and Sam can see the table wood has darkened where the glasses stood.

It’s only the first shot. Gabriel’s glass shatters on the stone floor and Michael slams his back to the table with a full wince, shoulders hunched as Gabriel curses, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Gabe – Gabriel!” Sam shakes his shoulder, but he’s gone as solid and hard as stone.

For one long, terrifying moment the kitchen is still as the angels hold themselves.

And then Michael gasps, eyes slitting open, and Gabriel exhales with smoke on his breath.

Holy fuck. Sam’s stomach flips.

The angels’ eyes meet and there’s the hint of a smile at the corner of Michael’s mouth.

“Again,” Michael says.

They’re crazy. They’re so crazy and Sam can’t look when Gabriel snickers, shooting another round back with his brother. They recover faster this time, Gabriel sliding down in his chair with a rasping laugh when he can breathe again as Michael shoots to his feet like he’s been shocked, chair clattering to the floor. Sam hears Michael hiss a breath between his teeth, but Sam’s too busy taking in his family’s expressions. He’s not the only one who thinks the angels are nuts.

“Is this a regular thing for you angels? Sitting up in the clouds, getting high on devil juice?” Bobby’s voice is dubious and bored.

Michael’s eyes are watering when he squints at Bobby, hands on his hips as though he’s having difficulty holding himself upright.

“No, devil juice is Luci,” Gabriel chuckles, voice hoarse and wrecked and Sam looks twice at him, unused to hearing that voice outside the bedroom. “This is from one of the deep rivers; it’s lethal to them in Hell because it’s pure. Sister to the streams of Eden.”

“So… could I try some?” Dean asks, strangely curious.

Michael throws him a withering look.

“No.” Michael’s voice is rough, too, almost a pitch deeper and dangerous like Sam remembers from not so long ago.

“Are you suicidal?” Gabriel barks, cracking up at himself. He sobers, though not by much, seeing Sam shake his head. “Don’t worry, babe. It’s not going to hurt us. Much. It’s just about the only thing that works.”

“Hey, have some water,” Adam says, getting up from the table, and Sam realizes that Michael is coughing quietly, chin to his chest as he tries to get it under control.

“No, that’ll just make it worse.” Gabriel waves him back, voice catching as he breaks into his own coughing fit.

Sam slaps him on the back and tries not to scowl. He doesn’t do a good job of hiding it.

“Feeling proud of yourself?” he mutters, rubbing small circles between Gabriel’s shoulder blades as the coughs subside. “I think you just burned Adam’s table, too.”

“It tastes like clouds,” Michael manages, still wincing, and Sam has no idea what he means since clouds were just water.

“C’mon, we’re not done,” Gabriel calls his brother back and Sam puts his foot down.

“Yes – yes you are,” Sam insists and notices that Adam’s wrapped a hand around Michael’s arm as well, holding him back.

“Get rid of that stuff, Gabriel,” Bobby orders.

The angel rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh, but when he snaps his fingers, the shot glasses are empty, back in their two rows of eight and even the burns are gone from the wood.

“Okay, who hasn’t drunk with me yet?” Gabriel looks around, expression turning flirtatious when Bobby shakes his head at him and Gabriel holds his attention for as long as it takes Bobby to stare the angel down. Gabriel shrugs, hands held up in defence, and then seems to notice Michael still hasn’t taken his seat.

“Adam!” Gabriel points, snaps his fingers at Michael’s righted chair. “You’re up.”

Sam stops rubbing circles on Gabriel’s back.

“Gabe, no,” he whispers because that would be a _terrible_ idea.

“I ain’t drinking no hellfire.” Adam shakes his head and Sam doesn’t think Adam realises he’s still holding onto Michael’s arm.

“No hellfire!” Dean echoes, voice ringing sharply in Sam’s ear.

Sam glares at him for the affront and Dean just frowns back, stifling a burp.

Michael lifts his study of his shoes to Adam’s face and the way he blinks, slow and heavy, makes Sam think the angel _is_ actually drunk. Or poisoned. Gabriel was still making noise, so it couldn’t have been so bad for them.

Gabriel’s filling the glasses with tequila when Sam looks again.

“Come o-oo-oo-oo-on, Adam! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, gotta wash that beef and potatoes down—“

Adam looks skeptical and he’s right to. Sam shakes his head when his brother looks to him.

“You can’t win, Adam.”

Adam’s expression shifts in surprise. He looks from Sam to the drunk angel beside him.

“Oh. Really? He looks pretty buzzed.”

“You don’t know me ‘til you’re buzzed!” Gabriel encourages, almost shouting, and Sam rolls his eyes, pushes Gabriel back in his chair with a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s an archangel, dude. He’s cheating,” Sam says and mourns for the poor kid’s innocence; Adam thinks he has a chance. Sam laments that Adam’s curious and stupid enough he’s going to try. Sam knows his brother.

Sure enough, a small, familiar smirk finds Adam’s lips and he settles himself in Michael’s seat at the head of the table. He even rolls up his damn sleeves and Sam appeals to Bobby; he can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe they’re letting this happen.

Bobby just shrugs. He looks sleepy.

“He’s an adult.”

Then Adam’s counting down with a smile in his eyes and he races Gabriel across the line.

They don’t even use any salt, lime or lemons.

“Who the hell _are_ you?” Adam asks when he comes up for air, wide-eyed and breathless, like he’s seeing Gabriel for the first time.

“I’m everyone,” Gabriel replies, not missing a beat, “I’m everything. And I’m a Goddamn angel of the Lord.”

“Hey,” Michael pipes up fuzzily, a vague look of disapproval narrowed at Gabriel for his blasphemy.

Adam’s had eight shots of tequila, but his eyes are clear and his smile only grows when Gabriel pours them both another round and they clink glasses in cheer before they go again.

They reach the end of the line at the same time and Dean goads Adam for not beating Gabriel and upholding the family honor. Adam orders Gabriel to pour another round, determined if slightly slurred, and by the time Adam finally wins – sometime within three rounds later – they’ve almost finished their second bottle.

Gabriel’s laughing again and Adam is staring at him, suspiciously, lolling against the table.

“I’ve missed you, kid, you can stay.” Gabriel slaps a hand on his shoulder.

“That wasn’t tequila,” Adam accuses, eyelids heavy.

“I never said it was.” Gabriel shrugs, lips pulled in a wide smirk of smug conceit.

“… Fuck,” Adam groans, slowly pressing his knuckles to the bridge of his nose.

Sam sighs. It _was_ tequila, but probably three times as potent as anything Adam had ever drank before. That’s just how Gabriel was and it’s the reason that Sam hardly ever drinks with him anymore – especially when there were other people around. Gabriel got... handsy, and Sam was rarely inclined to stop him.

“I told you, you couldn’t win.”

“Didn’t you see that? I won.” Adam’s hand falls to the table, scattering half the glasses.

One of the glasses comes skittering back and Sam sees that Dean and Bobby have started playing poker at the other end of the table. Dean’s so focused on his cards he doesn’t even look up when he pushes the rest of the glasses aside with his arm, crumbs and rosemary catching on his skin.

Adam frowns up at Michael when the angel accidentally bumps his shoulder. Sam is too busy pulling Gabriel to his feet to notice.

Neither Bobby or Dean look their way and Sam half-staggers with the weight Gabriel always seemed to lend himself when he got like this, pressing flush to Sam’s side. He’s ready for it, steadying the angel as Gabriel’s breath fans hot against his neck and Sam feels the smile in the kiss pressed to the skin beside his pulse. It’s one thing he loved and took comfort in about Gabriel: always, almost always, Sam could trust he would find him smiling.

“Raise you two, Bobby.” Dean throws two small roasted potatoes onto the plate between them and Bobby snorts.

“That’s just curiosity. You got nothing. Four.” Bobby drops more potatoes onto the plate and sniffs, adjusting his cards with oily fingerprints dusted in rosemary and thyme.

Sam jerks at the warm hand Gabriel slides under his shirt and across his stomach, up his chest and between his ribs.

He distantly registers the sound of footsteps overhead, wooden floorboards creaking, but he doesn’t think about it because Gabriel is nosing the skin under his ear, mouth moving over the lock of his jaw.

“I want you like black forest cake,” Gabriel hums against his skin, then, “I want you _and_ cake.”

So, he’s in _that_ kind of mood. Sam’s chest bounces with his laugh as he turns his head, catching Gabriel’s mouth easily. He’s the one smiling this time as Gabriel’s hands move under his shirt, over his heart, his collarbone, warm, close and intimately familiar, and Sam is really lucky that Dean and Bobby seem as drunk as they are.

“Downstairs bedroom,” Sam says and Gabriel doesn’t even have to snap his fingers before he’s pushing Sam down to that bed behind the closed door.

Sam is forgetting something important, but nothing is as important as the angel pulling his shirt off and straddling his hips, laughing against his mouth as Sam tangles a hand in his hair.

He’s where he needs to be and he forgets to worry.

-*-

Michael doesn’t plan it.

He doesn’t plan to meet Gabriel’s challenge and learn the fast and disinhibiting effects of raw, liquefied Hellfire. It’s still burning in the gut of his vessel, he’s sure of it, and he’s concerned that the next time he exhales he’s going to burn Adam from the inside out.

He didn’t plan to get Adam drunk. Gabriel did that all on his own and, in the end, it’s Adam with his strange, curious frown that pulls Michael after him up the stairs.

Michael’s back hits the wall as soon as the doors shuts, the bedroom falling into dark, and Adam’s immediately on him with hands in his hair, pulling Michael down for a kiss. If there are any flames still on his tongue, Adam doesn’t let it bother him.

Adam doesn’t kiss with any of the languor and tender affection that Michael's come to learn. It’s not even a shade of the curious, almost polite press of his mouth that had undone Michael the night before.

Adam’s body practically crashes against his and his kiss feels bruising, a persistent push of lips and tongue until Michael opens up for him and Adam welcomes himself inside. He drags Michael closer with drunk, jagged edges to his movements as though there’s still space to fill. His hands then push between them, and Michael realizes Adam’s fumbling with the button of his pants.

 _No_ , the word strikes through Michael as Adam’s harsh breathing rings in his ears. This rough, accidental rut in the dark isn’t him, it isn’t who they are. Not anymore.

Michael remembers the first time Adam touched him. Adam hadn’t really been himself then. Tonight was pleasant by comparison, but Michael remembers the flush of that confusion when Adam had laughed, bright and mad, digging fingers into the wound at Michael’s lower ribs even as he wrapped legs around the angel’s waist, holding tight.

Tonight reminds him too much of that rough, lustful violence and Michael pushes Adam back. He catches the hand seeking the zipper of his jeans, holding on when Adam just tries to swing his arm free of Michael’s grip.

“Isn’t this what you want?” Adam mutters and Michael can hear the annoyance in his voice. It’s a shallow frustration because Adam’s only listening to his body, Michael’s almost certain it’s just the alcohol talking.

Adam’s asked him a question. He wishes he could lie.

“Not like this,” Michael manages, Hellfire dulling his strength when Adam twists, hand clamping down on Michael’s wrist and pulling him along roughly.

He thinks Adam means to lead him to the bed, but they trip, Michael catching them both before they fall over their own feet with hands around Adam’s waist, though Adam counterbalances and they fall anyway. Michael sprawls on his back and his head thunks on the wooden floor.

He stares up at the ceiling in the dark. Does he imagine those blue flames dancing across the ceiling?

Careful fingers find his face, travelling to his hair.

“Are you okay?” Adam asks, hand pressing firm, but gently, across his scalp as though searching for a wound, even if the rest of him is letting Michael bear his weight.

He’s not heavy enough to debilitate Michael. The angel could lift or push him off if he really wanted to but, for some reason, he’s too shocked by the evidence of Adam’s interest that he can feel hard against his thigh.

If Adam couldn’t remember the last five years, where was this coming from?

“Stand up,” Michael says, swallowing when Adam’s weight shifts and rolls hard against his hips instead. Adam’s hands push up under his shirt, too casual, too confident, and Michael tenses with a shiver at the wet, heavy kiss that scrapes with teeth below his collarbone. “Adam, you don’t want to do this.”

He hears Adam’s sigh from very close when Michael catches his hands again, feels the end of that breath on his face, smelling of beer and tequila.

“How the hell do you know what I want?” Adam says, short and exasperated. “You’re hot. I’m hot. We’re here anyway.”

Adam’s words land like a physical blow, his hips grind against Michael before he’s even finished talking and Michael bucks, unable to stop himself despite the ache that twists and pulls in his chest.

He thinks these vessels act too easily without their owner’s volition, he thinks he should be better at controlling their impulses, but the Hellfire’s dampened that control tonight when he needs it most and Adam’s drunk, hard and needy above him. One part of Michael wants to shove him away because _this isn’t Adam_ , this Adam doesn’t understand where they are or how far they’ve come, and he doesn’t want Michael the way Michael _needs_ him. The self-preserving part of Michael that’s willfully denying these feelings just wants to dig hands into Adam’s hips, thrust up against that heat and bury his face in Adam’s neck, to let this mean nothing.

Then Adam kisses him. It’s gentler this time, seeking and slow, licking once over Michael’s lips as though Adam’s sensed the change and Michael’s thin resistance crumbles.

Who was he kidding? It was still Adam.

“Need your help, Mike. You’ve gotta show me what to do,” Adam says, voice breathy, although from the way he moves between Michael’s legs and nuzzles the side of his face, Michael thinks Adam has a decent grasp of what he’s doing. Eventually, it’s the tremble that gets him: Adam’s involuntary shiver of lust that Michael feels through the hands trapped to his chest and the weight of Adam between his thighs.

It’s both sick and satisfying when Michael finally pushes a hand down between them. Adam helps him undo the buttons and zippers, push their briefs down and Michael draws a knee up, pushing Adam’s legs further apart before he takes them both in hand. Biting his tongue at the hot, familiar spike of pleasure, he pumps them slowly, once, and Adam breathes out harshly against his cheek.

“Come here.” Michael draws Adam to rest his elbows by Michael’s head, to lean his weight there. Michael wills himself to stay still for as long as he can, letting Adam thrust into his fist, wrapping his hand around Michael’s to make him hold tighter. He groans, low and long, against Michael’s collarbone and the sound vibrates through him.

Michael feels like a thief as he lets Adam move, as he finally thrusts up to meet him and still wishes he could take more than this. His free hand touches Adam everywhere he can reach, catching the back of his knee, his thighs, his ass, strokes up under the back of his shirt until he’s curling a hand in blond hair, but Adam doesn’t raise his head. He’s more interested in watching their hands move between their bodies and his shuddering breaths roll down Michael’s chest and stomach in wet licks of heat.

Adam’s skin is slick with sweat, his cock beading with precome which Michael uses to ease Adam’s slide in his hand. Michael’s lungs stutter, Hellfire racing heady and traitorous through his system, when he thumbs Adam’s slit and Adam whimpers, back bowing over him. Michael does it again, feeling Adam’s hips falter, the muscles of his back tensing, then the already careless rhythm completely falls apart.

Michael works Adam through his orgasm, Adam’s groan puffing hot against his neck as his hips jerk helplessly into Michael’s fist. Michael doesn’t follow, he’s not even sure he could, and he stays very still in that grateful moment when Adam goes slack, every inch of him sprawled over Michael in his exhaustion. His breathing evens, and Michael’s arm falls around his waist. For a stretch of seconds, Michael can pretend.

It’s not even a minute before Adam pushes off, rolling on his back to Michael’s side with a noise of discomfort that ends in a tired sigh. Michael sees him wipe his hand against the leg of his pants. He grabs one of the shirts off the bed (one of his, not Adam’s) and wipes his stomach before offering it to Adam.

“Thanks,” Adam breathes out once he’s done with the shirt and drops it to the side. After a moment when neither of them have moved, he adds, “This floor is really… comfortable.”

Michael focuses on trying to identify patterns in the scattered light of the moon through the curtains, but there are none tonight. He can’t see the connections. He can’t see the sense of anything.

When he looks to Adam, he finds he’s fallen asleep.

The room smells of sweat and sex.

Michael already hates himself. It’s not a feeling he enjoys.

-*-

Dean can’t remember the last time he drank this much.

He usually reserved this sort of enthusiasm for special occasions, but then, it _had_ been a while since somebody cooked him a fresh homemade meal and Gabriel always brought the very best liquor.

He rolls over sometime before dawn, woken up by the cold. It hurts to move. It hurts to swear. It hurts even trying.

Bobby’s back in his armchair, blanket across his knees with a pleased smile as though he’s dreaming about how he took Dean to town for all of his potatoes last night and all Dean has to show for it is a splitting headache.

He cranes his neck and sees Michael asleep in the opposite armchair, head propped on his hand. Sleep had more merit for the angels now that they couldn’t return to Heaven. It was almost a year ago that Michael confessed to Dean the voices of the Heavenly Host had faded to the background of the din after years on Earth and it was harder to hear them each time he reached for that connection. Gabriel confirmed the same phenomenon when Dean asked him about it and it had left them concerned what it meant. Were they becoming human? Or was it just like another sense, dulling with underuse?

When Michael first joined their camp, none of the angels could sleep, but with time Dean thinks they taught themselves how after learning it was one of the easiest ways to plug back into the angel network and hear the voices of their brothers and sisters. Dean thinks it comforts them.

Gabriel and Sam are nowhere to be seen, go figure.

Dean staggers to the kitchen and runs a glass of water from the faucet. It sloshes cold through everything else already in his gut. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Goddamnit, he would kill for some painkillers, but the bathroom with its medicine cabinet were all the way down the hall. He could barely stomach the thought of wobbling back to his chair.

He leans his elbows on the sink’s edge and squints into the dark early morning until even watching his reflection in that black glass becomes too hard.

This was going to be a fun day.

-*-

Adam wakes up alone on the bed twisting around a sharp, bright cold in his chest. It’s like he slept in the wrong position and folded on some of his muscles too tightly. For a terrifying couple of seconds the pain is so blinding that he thinks he’s having a heart attack. He feels like he’s collapsing on the inside and actually wonders if he’s dying.

_It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass…._

Finally, with a groan of relief, it does. The bedroom is dark and his stomach starts pitching violently.

He barely makes it to the ensuite in time and heaves into the toilet bowl. Afterwards, he actually feels a little better.

His shoulders shake and he drags in deep breaths, sitting back on his heels. What had that awful pain been about? Was it the drink? He holds his stomach, sore and tired from seizing. He closes his eyes and light criss-crosses, flickering in vague, lancing shapes behind his eyelids.

Hopefully that’s the one and only time he’s going to be sick tonight.

His eyes water, tongue feeling thick, chest tightening again and somehow he thinks he’s going to be firm friends with the porcelain tonight.

-*-

It’s almost nine o’clock in the morning when the knock comes at the front door.

Gabriel’s brewing a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Dean, Bobby and Michael are still dozing in the living room and Gabriel wonders which neighbor is so eager-eyed to be up and knocking this early on a Sunday morning. Then again, this was late by country town standards.

He hears Dean muffle a disgruntled groan as the knock comes again and it’s a surprise Michael isn’t already up to answer it. Gabriel leaves the second mug of coffee for Sam on the counter when he pads barefoot across the cool floorboards.

The morning air sweeps in fresh and biting as he pulls the door open.

Gabriel stares, hand still on the doorknob.

In the open doorway, leaning on the wooden frame, Lucifer looks from Gabriel to the mug of coffee in his hand.

“No hot cocoa today, Gabriel?” Lucifer asks, his voice light and teasing.

Gabriel glances once more at the sleeping denizens of the living room before grabbing a fistful of Lucifer’s jacket and yanking him inside.

-*-

“What are you doing here?”

Sam rolls over, twisting in the bed sheets, and rubs the heel of one hand against the sleep crusting his eyes. Was Gabriel talking to him?

“Raphael won’t speak to me. However, she isn’t allowed to kill me, either, and it makes for stoic company,” a low, familiar voice replies.

No, it couldn’t be.

Sam pushes himself up onto his elbows and squints in the dark of the bedroom because the curtains are still drawn.

There are two figures arguing in hushed voices by the closed bedroom door.

“You can’t be here,” Gabriel is saying, voice urgent and concerned as though somebody was going to come charging through the door at any minute.

“What’s going on?” Sam’s voice cracks, still thick with sleep.

The sound of boots is sure and steady on the floorboards as the taller of the figures rounds the bed to sit by Sam’s arm. A cool hand cups the back of his neck and lips press to his forehead.

“Good morning, Sam.”

“… Lucifer?”

It’s a little easier to see this close now that his eyes have adjusted, but Sam’s not sure that he’s actually woken up.

“I missed you,” Lucifer says and that low, smooth timbre is too accurate, caressing Sam’s skin like the morning chill, he could never replicate it that well even in his most vivid dreams.

“You couldn’t give us one day, Luci? I told you we’d be back soon.” Gabriel is still whispering as he joins them, setting a mug on the bedside table.

Sam immediately reaches for it. Lucifer hands it to him.

“I missed you too, Gabriel,” Lucifer tells him and Sam can hear the smile in his voice.

Gabriel sighs, hand catching in Lucifer’s short hair as his brother rests his forehead on Gabriel’s chest.

“Lucifer, you can’t just show up like this,” Sam sighs, sitting up properly against the headboard. He takes the hand that falls to his shoulder and holds it loosely between his two on the bedspread.

“Why? I felt your distress. I gave you time, but you didn’t return. I had to see you for myself.” Lucifer looks from Sam to Gabriel.

“There’s just—“ Sam struggles to find the right words and realizes Lucifer has not only turned up to Michael and Adam’s house unannounced, he’s turned up with an _amnesiac_ Adam upstairs and nobody had told Lucifer yet. “There’s a lot going on right now. We were coming back soon anyway. We could have saved you the trip.”

“Where’s Raphael?” Gabriel asks with poorly hidden nonchalance.

“Not far.” Lucifer’s fingers stroke the back of Sam’s hand and he looks completely at peace sitting there, nestled between the two of them. Just the way he liked it. “I saw Dean and Bobby. What’s going on?” Light and curious, that’s when they had to be the most careful.

“Adam’s having engine troubles. He needed a brother to take a look: one who can tell a carburettor from a gas line,” Gabriel says.

“Dean got us worked up over nothing,” Sam agrees, ignoring the personal jibe in favor of letting the lingering fatigue of not nearly enough sleep flatten his voice to something exasperated and familiar.

Lucifer looks at Sam for a long moment, long enough for Sam to feel nervous, particularly when both of Lucifer’s hands take Sam’s, his smooth palms stroking over Sam’s knuckles.

 _You’re lying to me_ , Sam expects him to accuse.

“I’ll always come for you – both of you,” Lucifer says, because distance has never mattered for him.

Sam forces a smile that he hopes doesn’t betray his nerves. He tries to remember that Lucifer loves him, but half-asleep on the edge of dreams, Sam’s heart still hammers nervously against his ribs when Lucifer leans in to kiss him, uncaring of his morning breath, and Sam wonders when he’ll get used to this.

-*-

Dean almost spits out his coffee and burns his tongue in the process.

“What?”

Sam’s looking at the ground, to the window, anywhere but meeting his brother’s eyes as he balances his hands on his hips.

“Lucifer’s here.”

Michael disappears in a moment, probably flying straight to Adam’s side. Dean and Bobby glance around the living room as though Lucifer should have appeared in one of the seats while Sam was relaying the news.

“Where?” Bobby sounds confused.

Sam jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“In the bedroom. With Gabriel.”

Oh, this was perfect. This… the timing of everything was just perfect.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“He just got here.” Sam puts his hands up defensively like he’s ready to make a list of excuses. Dean’s been listening to excuses for the last two years and the only reason he lets Sam talk shit is because Gabriel trusted Lucifer, and Dean trusted Gabriel, even if Dean sometimes questioned his own reasons why.

“Get him the hell out of here, Sam,” Bobby says.

“Bobby, I can’t just order him out – even if he’d listen to me, it’ll make him suspicious. He’ll start sniffing around and that’s the _last_ thing we want.” Sam sounds like he’s already thought about this and considered their options.

“Handle it,” Dean growls and he doesn’t like having to use that voice so early in the morning. He makes his own head hurt. The ringing between his ears starts up again and he shuts his eyes with a wince.

“I will. Just… be careful what you say.” Sam backs out of the living room.

Dean and Bobby exchange a heavy look.

“This is turning into a circus,” Bobby says. “Shit’s gonna hit the fan, Dean.”

Dean scowls against the lip of his mug. Bobby was right.

“More of the same then, right?” He takes a careful sip and the burn on his tongue still smarts.

-*-

Adam wakes up shivering with a cool washcloth on the back of his neck.

He’s on the ensuite floor, curled against the cupboard under the sink with a towel wrapped around himself. He’d been too exhausted to make his way back to the bed after the third time he threw up. He doesn’t remember the conscious decision to stay where he was, but he can remember the extraordinary effort it had taken just to pull one of the towels off the rack.

Michael crouches into his field of view, the afterimage of those criss-crossing lights fading as the archangel blocks out the sun from the far bedroom window.

Adam closes his eyes beneath the washcloth Michael passes over his face.

“How are you feeling?” Michael asks.

“Kill me,” Adam begs weakly, arms still wrapped around his stomach. The towel was too thin.

Michael barely smiles, humming a humorless note under his breath, and presses the washcloth to Adam’s temple.

It’s cool and damp when Adam gets hold of it, pulling it weakly from Michael’s grip.

“Michael.” He clears his throat and swallows down the thick uneasy feeling climbing towards his throat. “Last night’s fuzzy, but I remember some stuff. This isn’t me. I’m not usually like this.”

Or is he? The thought occurs to him almost as quickly as the realization that it _was_ five years later, everything had changed. Even him. Michael was proof of that.

“I know,” Michael says. No surprise that he sounds like he’s still reserving judgment.

There’s a distant click, the bathroom door’s been shut and the soft light of the early morning that had been piercing his brain is suddenly gone. Adam feels a guilty pang of relief that twists into nausea as Michael settles behind him and draws Adam to lean against his chest and tuck his head under Michael’s chin.

Michael is warm, too warm, and what Adam needs is exactly the opposite, but Michael’s been so fucking patient with him that Adam thinks it would be ungrateful to complain. He _is_ grateful.

“Never drinking with Gabriel ever again,” Adam groans, covering his mouth as he feels the tell-tale twitch before the worst part comes.

He feels Michael’s fingers over his stomach as a buzz fills his ears like the quiet drone of some faraway machine through so many doors on the other side of the hall. His gut clenches just the way he expects before it should roll up through his chest, to his shoulders and into his throat – but when it doesn’t happen, when the awful feeling is stripped away like a rug that’s been pulled from under his feet, he gasps for breath and realizes he doesn’t feel so violently sick anymore.

The smells of soap and shampoo aren’t so sweet to make him hold his breath, he can bear the low sun through the skylight. His stomach is still tight, but the miserable feeling is gone.

It’s gone.

“Did you just… heal me?” Adam pants, looking back into Michael’s face.

Michael’s expression is faraway and he’s wearing that distracted, almost-frown again, not smiling when he brushes the damp washcloth at the corner of Adam’s mouth.

“I can do a lot more than this,” Michael says, as if to remind Adam that this is not all that he is.

_He's not the guy who brings you breakfast in bed. You're not a person to him, you're just a ride with an out-dated engine._

Which story should Adam believe? The one where Michael lets Adam be a douche and lie in the cradle of his thighs after the event, or the violent and unpredictable version forewarned _by himself_ from a video diary that he’d felt important enough to leave behind even after they’d apparently forged this utopian ever after years later?

He makes a point to ask Michael later how they met.

He tries to remember what his mom had said, something about Michael making it up to him.

He’s not sure what he should believe, but she’d said to give him and everyone else a chance. So, Adam stays where he is, because right now Michael radiates safety and the will to protect in spite of everything and Adam’s still trembling anyway, it wouldn’t kill him to hold still for a few minutes longer.

Just a few more minutes, he promises himself, as Michael’s arms wrap around him.

“There’s someone downstairs,” Michael says. “You won’t remember him. When you meet him, it’s very important that you show no reaction to the things he does or says. We’ve been estranged, but he’s seeing your brother… and my brother.”

Adam stares at the tiles for a long time trying to process that statement.

“… You lost me.”

“He likes to agitate people.”

“Sounds like a charmer. So, what do you want me to do?”

“Ignore him. And don’t be left alone with him.”

“Who the hell is this?” Adam tries twisting to look back into Michael’s face, but motion? He finds that’s still a bad idea.

“Lucifer,” Michael says.

“… You’re kidding, right? Lucifer? The devil? The devil’s downstairs?”

-*-

There’s bacon and eggs cooking on the stove when Adam staggers downstairs, preferring to brave the steps than stomach the full body wrench of Michael’s offer to transport them below.

The smell of meat intensifies when he rounds the corner and he slams a hand over his mouth.

Michael is right behind him blocking his path when he turns back for the stairs. He can’t believe Michael is forcing him to enter a kitchen with the devil. But, apparently, Lucifer was no physical danger and if Adam just played the role of the deaf, dumb, mute and put something in his stomach, Michael had promised to let Adam retreat back to the bedroom.

“Eat something.” Michael turns Adam around by his shoulders, ignoring his groan, and marches him back into the kitchen.

“ _You_ eat something,” Adam retorts, letting Michael’s hands steady his blind wobble, a hand over his eyes to shield them from the morning sun. He hopes Michael’s leading him toward a seat.

Someone thumps his arm.

“Hey.” It’s Dean. “Sorry, we’re out of juice. You still drink coffee?”

Adam cracks an eye at his brother. Dean’s wearing the same clothes from the night before and the hair on half of his head is flattened. If Adam's head wasn't splitting apart, he might have thought it was cute.

“You been cooking again?”

He hears Dean snort a laugh before disappearing out the back door. Adam spots the shape of Bobby standing over the stove out of the corner of his eye and reaches for the nearby sink to steady himself. Washing one of the glasses in the basin, he pours himself some water. Michael’s hand lingers, a warm reminder steadying him low on his back.

Adam’s still gulping the water when he hears the new voice, light and curious.

“There’s something different about you.”

He looks over his shoulder.

Lucifer is as tall as Michael, dirty blond, with squarer features and a broad but lean physique. He’s crossed his arms, head tilted to the side, and he’s studying Michael’s face with interest. Adam feels the hand at his back curl slowly around his waist.

Michael carries off contemptuous disregard so well that Adam doesn’t think he’s pretending. He doesn’t even flinch when Lucifer leans in, for a second Adam thinks he’s actually going to _kiss_ Michael, but he stops a breath away and looks down as though he’s searching for something at Michael’s neckline. After a beat, Lucifer meets Michael’s eye in surprise.

“Hellfire!” He sounds impressed. “Have you been down below, Michael? Did you miss the old views?”

Adam looks at Michael in surprise.

“You were in hell?”

He jumps, then glares at Michael after the hand around his waist squeezes tightly. Fuck, Michael had a grip. Bastard. That hurt.

… But judging by the bright, delighted look of curiosity Lucifer has just turned on _Adam_ , maybe it was deserved.

“Good morning, Adam.” Lucifer sounds _way_ too happy to see him, at a level bordering on creepy. And Adam is not so thrilled about having all of that attention focused so intensely on him, either.

“Morning,” he says, feeling lame. He glances at Michael for hints, but the angel’s jaw is clenched shut, muscles of his neck standing with tension. The squeeze around Adam’s waist is bracing this time, a comfort, and his hand skims Adam’s lower ribs.

“Have you had your coffee yet?” Lucifer asks with a knowing smile.

“I – uh—“

Lucifer presents a steaming mug of coffee under his nose. Adam suspects the devil had first planned on drinking it himself.

The devil was offering him coffee. Could this get any more surreal?

Michael hums with a dark smile of his own, like this is a dance he and Lucifer have done before, taking the proffered mug and raising it to his lips.

Lucifer smirks at Michael.

“One day, I _will_ poison that. And then you’ll be sorry you drank first.”

“You’ll be sorry you can’t fly fast or far enough before it takes effect.” Michael seems satisfied with the drink, his voice just as light and taunting.

Adam looks between them: Lucifer brought out a whole new side to Michael that he hadn’t seen yet and it was… interesting. Amusing, even.

Bobby chooses that moment to lean away from the stove and shove a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs into Michael’s arm.

“Yes, ladies, ya both got big sticks. Now feed your faces before I eat it myself.”

There’s amusement dancing in Lucifer’s eyes and it’s not because Bobby is such a wisecrack; Adam’s missing something.

In the end, Lucifer steals a slice of the crispy bacon and Adam quickly pawns the second one, leaving Michael with a plate of eggs he doesn’t even look like he’s going to consider. Instead, he takes a fork from the drawer by Adam’s thigh and holds the plate to Adam’s chest.

“Eat.”

Adam stares at him, bacon caught between his lips.

“I swear to God, if you try to spoon feed me—“

“It’s a fork,” Michael interrupts, dryly.

“Be careful. He _will_ force you,” Lucifer tells Adam with a small smile.

The flat, droll stare Michael turns on Lucifer is hysterical. These two were either really old friends or just as old frenemies, but based on Michael’s warning upstairs, Adam doesn’t think it’s safe to hazard a guess. Michael wasn’t doing such a great job of taking his own advice.

Michael and Lucifer. Adam had to go back and re-read the bible because from what he remembered hearing in secondary school, Michael was the one who’d led the charge evicting Lucifer from Heaven. Or had it been Gabriel? Looking between the two taller angels, it seemed nuts that Adam would look for clues about his apparent boyfriend from a millennia old text. Besides, what if Adam didn’t have a copy of the right translation on hand?

At this point, Lucifer is smart enough to make himself scarce. He flashes one last smile at Adam before he strolls out of the kitchen for the backyard.

“Thanks for the food, Bobby,” Lucifer says, briefly clasping the older man’s arm on his way past.

Bobby tenses and his entire body doesn’t release until that back door shuts.

“What is his _deal_?” Adam breathes in amazement, watching Lucifer take the orchard lane at a leisurely pace. He spots Sam at the far end, standing at the wooden gate with who could only be Gabriel, judging by their size.

He looks between Bobby and Michael who have both stopped to watch Lucifer’s back. Their faces are sombre.

“Is he for real? Is that really the devil? He stole my bacon!” Adam almost laughs, incredulous. Lucifer was sort of… funny. And charming.

Bobby looks at him sharply and points with his wooden spoon.

“Don’t you get any featherbrained ideas. That’s the _devil_ , Adam.”

Michael’s free hand smooths over his lower back and his tone is a lot less biting than Bobby’s, but shares the same warning.

“He’s dangerous. You must always be on your guard.”

“You guys were funny,” Adam can’t help saying it, he’s confused.

Michael nods, but he shrugs it off with a sigh. Adam decides to try eating his eggs and stabs at them with the available fork.

“He’s still my brother and I’ll always love him. But he is who he is. I wish I could trust him.” Michael sounds genuinely disappointed and there’s an old, old wistfulness in his voice.

Adam recognizes mourning.

“Do you think he likes me?” Adam asks abruptly, looking back out the window. He should really know where he stood. Was it a good thing to be liked by the devil?

Michael chuckles under his breath, a confusing bitter sound.

“He likes you more than I prefer. You did well,” Michael assures him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders from behind. The plate comes back to Adam’s chest and he feels Michael’s mouth press against his temple.

“Dude, I can’t eat like this.” Adam frowns at the plate with the top of his arms trapped.

“Yes you can,” Michael counters and raises Adam’s hand holding the fork to prove his point.

Never mind that Adam had virtually no range of motion for his head or shoulders because Michael was hugging him like this. Obviously, Michael thought those things were optional.

“Thanks, I’ll feed myself.”

“Then feed yourself.” Michael’s smiling, he can hear it.

“Fuck, you’re bossy.” Adam bites his cheek to stop his own smile. Shoveling a mouthful of eggs, he glares at Bobby when the man snorts under his breath. Bobby is smirking and probably thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding it. “’The fuck do you think you’re laughing at, old man?” he means to say, but it comes out sounding more like, “Mmfrrghuugrrawwooom!”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Michael motions with the plate as though it’s possible Adam could have forgotten it was there and Adam cranes away to look at him, incredulous. Was he kidding? The devil was in their backyard and Michael was more interested in getting Adam to finish his breakfast? Adam’s not sure that Michael had his priorities straight.

Bobby leans over and slides two more slices of still sizzling bacon onto his plate. His eyebrows raise as his mouth shrugs helplessly and Adam is smart enough to read _leave me out of this_.

That’s okay. Bobby made him breakfast and Adam was in a good mood; Bobby could be forgiven.

Bobby turns off the stove and wipes his hands on his jeans before leaving the same way as Lucifer, door clicking softly shut behind him.

“What’s everyone doing out there?” Adam asks, pushing more eggs onto his fork.

“I think they’re going to play baseball,” Michael says.

“Oh. I like baseball.” Adam thinks he might join them once the last of the throbbing behind his eyes was gone. He’d almost completely forgotten how much pain he was in when he first staggered downstairs.

“Did I say ‘baseball’? They’re actually playing hockey.”

“Wow.” Adam twists around to stare at Michael who is wearing the worse façade of over-casual innocence. “You’re a _really_ bad liar!”

Michael seems to take that as a compliment. He smiles and it’s a good look on him.

“Hmm. Not when it matters.”

He does wonder what’s leading everyone out to that backyard. He wonders why Michael’s obviously trying to keep him inside. It was okay, Adam was all for feeding his face first. He could bide his time.

-*-

“It’s Sunday, right?” Adam asks later when he’s convinced Michael to let him outside, after convincing him that he wasn’t going to keel and puke his breakfast behind the nearest bush. He was feeling a lot better, honestly.

“Yes.” Michael keeps glancing around the rows of trees surrounding them and Adam tries to see what’s got his attention.

Nothing but fruit and fallen leaves, as far as he could see.

“So, did you have to go to church or something?”

The look Michael gives him is completely bewildered. He even stops walking.

“What?”

“Church: should we be going to church?”

Michael should not look this confused. He knew what a church was, right?

“… No,” Michael eventually answers, stiffly, uncomfortably. “We don’t attend church. We have no purpose there.”

Adam doesn’t completely understand, but he thinks he might be treading into some sensitive territory here. He’s still half-drunk, so he ploughs on, anyway.

“You don’t think seeing a flesh and blood angel would do a lot to help people keep the faith? I never knew you guys even existed.” Adam motions loosely at Michael. “Or that you could look like that.”

Michael glances down at himself and frowns.

“Our appearance is secondary. We are more than this.”

Adam shrugs it off and starts again towards that back gate where he’d last seen their house guests. He pushes his hands in the pockets of the light jacket he’d pawned off one of the chairs; he has no idea who it belongs to.

“I know, appearances are only superficial, right? You going to preach to me about inner beauty and compassion now?”

“No. I meant that what you see is not my true form. This is not even my true vessel.”

That sounds familiar. Adam pauses with his hand on the gate half ajar.

“Sam said something about that. What’s a vessel?”

Michael is studying the ground, there’s nothing particular there, and he takes a long time to respond. Adam pulls the gate open and waves the angel on through. Michael starts to speak, halts, and has to try again.

“Angels need a human vessel to set foot in your plane of existence, one capable of withholding our power. True vessels are designed by bloodlines.”

Adam nods, he’s following so far. He waves Michael through the open gate and Michael finally acquiesces, looking both ways up and down the open paddock.

“So, this isn’t your… ‘true’ vessel?”

Michael shakes his head.

“No.”

“Then where is it? He… she?”

Michael hums another of those humorless notes in his throat and peers up the boundary towards the East.

“Not far.”

“What, did you lose it?”

Michael searches Adam’s face then, shaking his head slowly.

“No. But he wouldn’t agree to my possession of him.”

Adam frowns in surprise.

“Oh. That sucks.”

Michael chuckles and brings Adam forward with a hand behind his shoulder.

“He had his reasons. And, despite my best intentions, I couldn’t guarantee he would have survived it.”

“Oh….” Now Adam understands. “So, you’re borrowing the guy you’re in right now?”

Michael sighs. Adam has a feeling the angel is getting tired of talking about this.

“My current vessel is a complicated matter. But this is not a loan.”

“… Do you want to change the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.” Michael sounds relieved.

“Why don’t we go to church?” Adam asks without missing a beat. Not that he’d want to go in the first place, but he was curious to know how much bible-beating mattered in the bigger scheme of everything.

Michael’s relief looks pretty short-lived. Adam does his best to repress his smile in case Michael decides to glare at him.

“Because God is dead,” Michael says, his hand falling from Adam’s shoulder and he stalks off down the stone wall without waiting for Adam.

Adam quietly shuts the gate behind him. He might have struck a nerve.

“He wanted your brother.”

Adam turns abruptly and finds Lucifer standing on the other side of the gate, leaning his hip against the stone. Adam was pretty positive that Lucifer hadn’t been standing there a moment ago.

“… What did you say?”

Lucifer nods after Michael who has already disappeared around the corner of the property – and it wasn’t like the estate was small. How the hell had Adam ever afforded this and where _was_ everyone? What the hell were they doing?

“Dean is Michael’s true vessel.”

Adam’s not sure that he heard him right.

_“Dean?”_

Lucifer laughs, quiet and pitying, and he shakes his head.

“I knew something had happened to you, Adam. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”

It’s at this point that Adam distinctly remembers Michael’s instruction never to let himself be left alone with Lucifer. Adam glances back down the line of the wall, but Michael hasn’t come back; stupid angel wasn’t helping him.

“I think – I think I should go—“ Adam starts down the direction Michael had disappeared, but Lucifer doesn’t let him get far.

“Do you know how you met?”

Adam squeezes his eyes shut. God, he should keep walking. He should not be talking to the devil.

But he really wants to know.

He sighs when he looks back at Lucifer who hasn’t shifted an inch from his lean against the wall, like he had all the damn time in the world and he wanted to share it with Adam.

“I can’t remember,” Adam confesses. “We haven’t gotten to that part yet. Do _you_ know how?”

“Oh, Adam. Everybody knows. You were the contingency, kid.”

Lucifer sounds so damn sympathetic, so sick with pity that it makes Adam’s fists curl.

“The contingency for what?” he asks through gritted teeth.

"Michael wanted your brother, but Dean wouldn't say 'yes'. So, Michael moved onto you and he _made_ you consent."

… Michael _made_ him?

Lucifer's face is perfectly serious, polite, and considerate. Adam’s heart is racing as he searches the devil’s face, waiting for the tell.

"I think you're lying," Adam says, but the quiet choke in his words gives him away.

"I don't need to lie."

"Where’s your proof?"

"Ask Michael. He can’t lie to you. You'll see that I'm right: he forced you.”

Adam feels sick. But he’s still here. Adam looks down at himself and presses hands to his hips, his stomach. He’s still here.

“Oh, he doesn’t need to wear you anymore. You served your purpose and you put up a respectable fight.” Lucifer pauses, eyes crinkling with delighted curiosity. “But you don’t remember me either, do you?”

Adam glares and tries to clamp down on the hot nausea rolling in his stomach again.

“Why the hell would I remember you?”

“We were all down there together,” Lucifer smiles and reaches for Adam before he can lean away, “See?”

The memory cuts through Adam like a knife across his throat and the criss-cross of light he’s been seeing every time he closes his eyes flares into substance: a vast web of bones, metal and stone stretching on to eternity with lightning through the dark. There’s silence at first – then a shock of fire and pressure crushing his chest; there’s screaming and he realizes it’s him. Cold smooths over him quickly, like super-cooled water sliding against his skin, over, around and beneath his limbs. It’s numbing relief and he _knows_ without understanding that this is Lucifer.

Something brushes against the frost on his jaw, tilting his head back on the narrow slab. He gasps as the cold slides through and into him from beneath, flash burn of confusion and agony, and when he flails, flesh tearing through barbed metal, his hand threads through waves of fire, clings onto the form above him.

Michael breathes light into Adam and it’s too much, it just burns in a different way, but it thaws the places Lucifer’s reached. Adam keens, trembling between the push and pull of them, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Sam beyond the light of Michael’s grace pressed against the wall of the cage, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His face is stricken, but for a split second of clarity, Adam just thinks he’s glad it’s not Sam this time.

His vision clears and he’s fallen back on the ground, panting and shaking with grass tangled between his fingers. Lucifer’s standing over him, hands in his pockets with his head cocked to the side as though Adam’s sprawl is a subject worth studying.

“Incredible… you’re _fresh_ ,” he says and Adam startles at the sound of his voice.

“Get the hell away from me!” Adam’s voice breaks, he doesn’t mean to scream.

Lucifer shakes his head with a frown of doubt.

“Poor choice of words, Adam, but this is for the best. Knowledge is power. Unlike your brothers who have coddled you, and _my_ brothers who would take the higher ground, I know that you deserve to have it. We’ve all earned the choice. So, I’ve given you back your power; now decide what to do with it.”

Adam shakes his head, shuddering out a dry sob around the rough unseen tear inside of him. He pushes the heel of one hand against his chest where it throbs beside his heart.

 _Fuck._ He squeezes his eyes shut.

“We’re all in this together,” Lucifer promises him quietly.

“Why am I _here_? What do you want from me?” Adam is hoarse, he doesn’t know how he’s lost his voice so quickly, but Lucifer still hears him.

“The only thing keeping you here is Michael.”

Adam finally looks the devil in the eye.

“What?”

“You have his name.”

Adam’s eyes fall involuntarily shut as another wave of pain shoots through him. He tries to remember why that name was so important.

_“I can’t return to Heaven without my name.”_

Adam shudders, he can feel himself sweating.

“He said he couldn’t take it back.”

“It’s true: you have to _give_ it back to him.”

Adam experiences a strange falling sensation that makes his elbows weaken, though his hands are planted behind him in the grass and he hasn’t made any effort to push himself up.

There’s something else. There’s something else important that he’s missing here…

But it hurts, like a needle through his brain, behind his eyes, when he tries to catch onto it. He shuts his eyes with a moan and waits until the feeling passes.

“How… how do I give it back?” he finally manages to ask.

Lucifer shrugs.

“You just have to say his name, Adam.”

“I don’t _know_ his name,” Adam mutters, his vision swimming again. There are afterimages playing behind his eyelids when he closes them, a flash burn of wings, lightning, fire, bones and metal that spikes and webs upwards and on, forever, and ever….

Even with his eyes closed, he sees the shape of Lucifer kneel, vapors rolling off his form that flickers at the edges like an ember of ice holding back the heat.

“Well, it’s lucky for you that I do.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam has no idea why Gabriel is doing this and it still surprises him how persistent Gabriel can be despite the majority opposition. Sam used to believe it was because all angels shared the wilful “I don’t care what you want because this is what I’m doing” attitude, but Gabriel, like Castiel, usually knew when to back off.

Usually.

Gabriel must have really believed this scavenger hunt around the property was necessary, even though Sam still didn’t know what they were looking for.

“We’ll split into two teams.” Gabriel points at Dean and the angel who comes up behind his shoulder. “Mike and Dean.”

Dean glares at his assigned team mate, arms crossing tightly over his chest. He doesn’t have Sam’s patience. Michael is looking between Dean and Gabriel with the suspicion of a deer in headlights that has no idea what he’s just walked in to.

“What’s this for, Gabriel?” Dean asks.

“Sam and Luci,” Gabriel continues and something occurs to Sam while he also notes that Gabriel hasn’t volunteered himself for the search.

Dean, unsurprisingly, has exactly the same thought.

“And what the hell will you be doing?”

“Where’s Lucifer?” Sam asks. “And where’s Adam?”

They all look around, but it’s only the four of them by the stone retaining wall where a pile of unused rocks had been left by the original stone masons. Sam had followed Gabriel out here thinking the angel actually intended to clear them away.

As though Gabriel would ever stoop to manual labour. What had Sam been thinking?

Sam and Gabriel exchange a look ( _no, I haven’t seen them; me neither_ ), then look to Michael.

Michael was a strange guy. Like most of the angels, he was new to a human vessel, and Sam believed there were still some dots to connect between the angel’s nature and the new form he had to communicate with. But it was the involuntary reactions that were the most interesting.

Michael’s ‘oh shit’ face was hard to recognise if you didn’t know him because he just went blank.

“He was right behind me,” Michael says, looking over his shoulder, but Sam could have told him that Adam wasn’t there.

“What are we doing?” Lucifer murmurs, startling Sam as he presses against his side and runs a hand up his arm. Sam almost relaxes, but something isn’t right. He frowns, searching Lucifer’s expression of casual interest that turns to question when he notices Sam staring. “What?”

Lucifer probably invented the poker face. It seemed stupid of Sam to try waiting it out, besides, he only had a _feeling._

“Have you seen Adam?” Sam asks.

Lucifer nods and points at the wall, or beyond the wall, Sam imagines.

“He returned to the house.”

“He okay?” Dean asks, clearly expecting anything but a ‘yes’.

Sam sees Michael bristle and straighten the way he always did before he took flight too fast for their eyes to follow, and, really? Was he going to do that every time?

“Hey, hey!” He quickly motions for Michael to stay. “Maybe we should just give him some space? We haven’t really given him much time on his own since this whole thing happened and, I dunno, after last night? He’s probably just hung over.”

Michael stares at him like he’s waiting for a better punch line.

“I’ll go. You guys stay here and take a look around.” Gabriel sighs.

“What are we looking for?” Lucifer asks.

It’s been a long time since Sam saw Gabriel look annoyed and he’s not sure that even Lucifer deserves it this time because _he_ has no idea, either, but then Gabriel snaps his fingers and Sam finds himself alone with Lucifer facing a garden hedge.

A very tall garden hedge that boxed them in on all sides.

“Is this a labyrinth?” Sam looks between the green walls that have at least another length of him in height. “Did he just stick us in a labyrinth?”

-*-

“Why the hell did I get stuck with the preppy one?” Dean grumbles to himself as he storms down the garden path and ignores Michael who was probably still staring at the hedge tops and stumped at Gabriel’s design.

Why did Gabriel always have to pull this sort of thing when he had a hang over?

“Give it a rest – you can’t fly out,” he shouts at the angel over his shoulder, “let’s find a way out of here because, unlike some of my brothers, _I_ haven’t actually had breakfast! I was going to go back when I’d finished helping Gabriel with this thing – just a quick thing, he said! See if I ever try to help you again, you jackass!” Dean shouts at the sky.

“Don’t indulge him,” Michael says, moving past Dean, still studying the hedges. “How does he do this? How does it bind me?”

“Mike, Gabriel’s had thousands of years to learn more than a few tricks. Hell, it was his profession. Just – figure it out. He’s your brother. And I’m starving.”

Michael sinks his hand into the hedge with a thoughtful sound and watches it slowly bend back into shape when he pulls his hand away. He looks from his hand to the hedge and Dean rolls his eyes as the angel peers closer at the plant wall as if trying to see through it. Dean had already tried that and it was too thick to see anything but leaves and branches.

“We’re going to be here for a while,” Dean admits to himself and doesn’t wait for Michael before heading on.

-*-

Adam doesn’t look up from the laptop when Gabriel sticks his head around the door.

The angel had knocked, but Adam didn’t want to see anyone and even when Gabriel had spoken through the door, advising Adam that he was coming in (not asking permission to enter, were they all like that?), Adam hadn’t bothered to put up a protest.

These were angels and there wasn’t much he could do to stop them.

He’s on the ninth of the video entries. His video self appears to be in another motel room, different shades of polka dot blue on the walls behind him.

He doesn’t bother turning it off or even hitting pause when Gabriel comes up behind him.

In the video, Adam drags a hand down his face. His face is pale and the sigh he releases is slow and heavy. He shakes his head, studying something beyond the vantage of the camera.

 _“My brothers think I’m crazy. Fuck, I know I’m crazy. But I know I can do this… I think if I can just get Michael to stop trying to rip his name out long enough for me to talk to him, I can tell him there’s another way. I can tell him there’s a way he gets to keep his family and everybody lives but he’s just angry all the Goddamn time – I don’t think he’ll listen….”_

Adam senses Gabriel at his shoulder as he watches the video, but Gabriel doesn’t say anything.

 _“I tried the ‘God has commanded it’ line like I was told to and if I ever get my hands on you, Michael, I’ll find a way to kick your ass ‘cause that sure as hell was not the right thing to say to yourself in the past. How could you get it so Goddamn wrong? Don’t you know yourself at all? Did you forget what a fucking psycho you used to be – I almost got killed today!”_

Adam hits the ‘pause’ button. He knows the video isn’t shouting at him, but it still shakes him. His chest hurts with the tension.

Gabriel doesn’t say anything. His expression is inscrutable, looking at the frozen image of Adam on the screen, when Adam finally turns to him.

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” Adam asks.

“Where did you find these?” Gabriel asks carefully.

“I found them yesterday, right here.” Adam nods at the laptop and shuts the lid. He doesn’t like being glared at by his not really reflection. “There’s a whole series from me to myself. They start about five years ago.”

“Huh. Last time they were on a box set in storage.”

“… _Last time_? Gabriel, you knew about this? How many times has this happened? Was anybody going to say anything to me?”

Gabriel shrugs like it’s nothing, as though Adam hasn’t just had the rudest awakening of his life.

“Well, I was the only one you told last time, to be fair.”

“Why? Last time – dude, _please_ just tell me what’s going on.”

Gabriel smiles at him, it’s simple and serene. It’s not catching. He squeezes Adam’s shoulder firmly.

“Why? Because I’m your best friend. What… is a long story, but don’t worry, I made sure we’ve got time.”

-*-

Apparently this has all happened before and, as far as Gabriel can understand, it will happen again. Nobody else remembers, not even Gabriel, having only Adam’s word and the video evidence to go by, but every time it’s a little different. Every time, they end up in Napa and, every time, Adam eventually disappears.

It takes Gabriel less than an hour to affirm what the videos had poorly tried to explain of the last five years: how Michael returned with the intent to kill the Winchesters who had derailed his plans for the apocalypse ending his family feud.

How Adam’s brothers had been stumped and frustrated at every turn by Adam’s reluctance to fight after Balthazar found him at a literal crossroads one evening at the border with New Mexico and brought him back to Singer’s Salvage Yard.

How Sam and Dean understandably flew off the handle when they realised Adam was trying to talk Michael down using reason and stories about another life they’d apparently shared together; about a house in Napa. About how Michael’s siblings had come back together and, although God had never returned, they became the closest thing to a family since Lucifer’s fall.

Adam listens in horror to Gabriel’s account of how Sam and Dean only found out because they caught Adam feeding Michael his blood to help him keep his temporary vessel. Castiel had discovered that Michael couldn’t lie to Adam while Adam held his name and, compounded with the almost drunken effect of Adam’s blood, Michael spilled everything he knew. It was like Sam and Ruby all over again, but worse because _they_ were fuelling the other side, and the only reason his brothers didn’t kill him was because Adam’s blood loss almost did it for them. The intel they gained made all the difference.

Sam and Dean weren’t the only ones who were livid. It tipped Heaven’s civil war in Castiel’s favour and after Raphael declared Michael a traitor, she came after Adam directly.

Castiel and Balthazar had been waiting for her when she touched down in front of that highway motel while Sam, Dean and Adam drove for the border with Canada.

There had been an angel named ‘Sariel’ expecting them.

With Raphael’s rise to the top, Sariel had become her first lieutenant and Sariel had been around since the beginning, like them.

Gabriel tells Adam that since Lucifer’s fall, Sariel’s loyalties had never been entirely clear, but Sariel had taken the initiative to end the Winchester’s corruption of his brothers. Sariel had been among the angels who sired Nephilim, but repented; he knew the dangers that humanity posed to the angels’ divine mission.

Sariel blamed Dean for Castiel’s dissension. He blamed Sam for Gabriel’s death (and that had come from far left field, they didn’t understand it until Gabriel came back to them). Most immediately, though, Sariel intended to wipe Adam from existence before he could influence Michael as well.

Castiel had been a rebel who rose through the ranks, but if Michael broke with Heaven, the damage would be unfathomable. Even in the cage, Michael had been a symbol of the original order and authority, but if he turned, Sariel had no doubt that it could destroy Raphael and there would be chaos among the remaining garrisons. Heaven and everything within it would suffer the shockwaves.

Adam didn’t get the opportunity to explain that Michael hadn’t shown any sign of switching sides, especially after Adam tricked him, because then Sariel was after them and they were reminded that the Impala couldn’t outrace angels in flight.

They’d crashed through an embankment of snow, the Impala burying her nose within a line of trees after a bad turn on black ice. Something landed on top of them and Dean let off three rounds before they’d realised Sariel was standing in the headlights among the trees and it was Michael on the Impala’s roof, which Dean wasn’t too thrilled about, either.

Until they realised Michael was warning Sariel to leave, but Sariel was disillusioned enough to question him, which was all it took for Michael to fly into a fury, and at this point Gabriel’s story got fuzzy because Adam’s later recollection he told Gabriel was missing a lot of pieces.

Michael had intervened to protect his own name. Nobody yet knew what would happen to him if Adam was killed while still holding it between the threads of his soul.

Sam, Dean and Adam had just managed to climb out of the car when the other angels appeared.

Castiel and Balthazar fell with Raphael from the sky like a bolt of lightning. Raphael’s scream was a roar of outrage and betrayal when she saw Michael at arms against Sariel.

Sariel took a sword to the gut and Raphael threw her sword at Michael in retribution. Raphael took Sariel and flew before any of them could react, before Michael could explain to his first lieutenant and most loyal brother, slumping to the snow with the sword in his chest.

Gabriel says this is when the war really turned because Adam and Balthazar convinced the others to take Michael with them. Adam had predictably agreed first when Castiel and Balthazar explained how they could heal Michael, if indeed that was the course they would take, but Dean had surprised them all.

Adam was already too weak, Dean had said, almost bled himself dry for the asshole who ended up with a hole in his chest anyway. He hadn’t meant it in a proud way and he looked about ready to kill someone when Michael eventually pulled his hand away from the healing charge of Dean’s soul, the light in his eyes fading with the aftershocks of their connection.

It was days before Michael could rise from his bed; Raphael’s sword had narrowly missed his heart, and the worst of the damage, where Raphael and Michael’s ties had been severed, couldn’t be balmed by any intervention.

Four days after their confrontation with Sariel and Raphael, four days since Michael had been under their guard, Lucifer broke free from the cage.

He had been paying attention when Michael took Adam and escaped. With Sam’s body and soul gone, Lucifer had no more vessels, but there was one thing of another he still had from his time on Earth: Gabriel’s sword, the very sword Lucifer had used to kill him.

Gabriel’s face is grim and difficult as he tells Adam of how Lucifer had reformed him from atoms and whispers of what he used to be, how _legions_ of demons and ruined souls laid down their lives at the broken seal of the cage so their Morningstar could walk again beside the vessel of his brother. Gabriel grows silent at this point, as though the thought he was resurrected from the essence of so many wretched things makes him feel sick and sullied, and Adam doesn’t know how to comfort him, so he sits and waits patiently until Gabriel shakes his head with a sigh and continues.

Gabriel was resurrected in the fires of hell and tied with a ribbon inscribed with Lucifer’s name so that the Devil could step through the cage, nameless, and return them both to Earth.

From the halting, then almost too off-handed way that Gabriel tells it, Adam thinks this is the abridged version. Adam doesn’t blame him for not lingering on that time in Hell, or what it took for Lucifer to break them free, nor what Lucifer did when they first saw blue sky again.

Lucifer wanted revenge against Michael and Adam for leaving him to the cage where it was vast and cold, but first he wanted (needed) Sam. What Lucifer hadn’t counted on was that Gabriel had his own strong opinions about Sam; specifically, that Gabriel was obsessed with Sam in his own way and no amount of hellfire still seeded under his skin could make him forget some of the other reasons he had switched sides.

After Lucifer gave Gabriel his name, they were intrinsically connected – bonded as though they were one. Lucifer could feel Gabriel’s every misgiving and surge of guilt; he could sense his movement and knew exactly where Gabriel was at any point in time, which made it difficult to sneak away without endangering the Winchesters.

Gabriel summoned Castiel, who summoned Balthazar, who slapped the first shielding ward on Gabriel that he could reach for when he realised just whom Gabriel was attached to. It lasted less than an hour, but it was long enough for Gabriel to see Sam and understand that his walls were falling down.

What lay behind Sam’s barriers was more than Gabriel knew he would survive, so in the series of a few long breaths, Gabriel lay both his and Lucifer’s names in the mortar of Death’s wall to keep Sam standing.

Lucifer was not happy when he realised what Gabriel had done and he realised as soon as the deed was complete. A new host of alien feelings rushed through him, things he had no reason or right to experience, and it confounded him. His anger burned cold when he got his hands on Gabriel again.

Lying between Sam and Lucifer, Gabriel could shield Lucifer from Sam’s location while giving Sam the full benefit of their grace. Unfortunately, or not depending on the point of view, both Gabriel and Lucifer could now feel everything that Sam experienced. And if he wasn’t stressed, he was melancholy, but sometimes there were bursts of such surprising strength, assurance and confidence, born from his will to protect Dean and Adam.

Gabriel had intended to subvert Lucifer’s plans by laying him as a slave to Sam’s questions, but he’d underestimated how much Sam’s feelings would affect them both with only each other for company.

When the echo of Sam’s longing for long blonde hair and soft, warm comfort coursed through them, the memory of that trust and intimate belonging dredged up long burned and buried memories of Heaven. Remembering was like the agony of serrated blades cleaving through their grace like butter. Gabriel and Lucifer had pushed those memories down for a reason: the only thing that hurt more than being apart from Heaven was being apart and remembering what it had been like to be there, to be lifted within the chorus of all the angels, and know the true glory of their Father’s unconditional love.

There was nothing more wrenching than to learn that, without their Father, they didn’t know how to love without terms and conditions; and then to learn that, sometimes, even love wasn’t enough.

Love, itself, had never been the problem.

Gabriel was the one who initiated the first kind touch, but Lucifer no longer knew how to recognise or trust kindness. He suspected that every brush, every jibe, and gentle word had an undercutting motivation.

It was tiring never being able to trust anyone.

Unsurprisingly, when Gabriel finally succeeded, it had started with a fight. They weren’t actually very good at fighting because Lucifer was always reacting instinctively to Gabriel through the bond half a beat before Gabriel was aware of his own response, which meant that half the conversation was already over before Gabriel had joined in. It was endlessly frustrating, so Gabriel decided a different tactic: to feed Lucifer more information than he knew what to deal with.

It was easier said than done to feel with enough intensity and keep the torrent open to stun Lucifer into silence.

Gabriel loved his brother and he knew Lucifer still loved him, too. They’d just forgotten for a while.

In the aftermath, when they accidentally learned that they both also wanted Sam….

Well.

That was the start of an interesting six months.

-*-

Sam and Adam had shredded their own hole in Heaven and Heavens alongside it with their gluttonous bloodlust, the desperate, ravenous need to destroy and consume, to fill that jagged void within themselves that Michael and Lucifer had left behind.

Michael didn’t know the state of his Father’s home. He would later learn that Castiel had caught the brothers as they tore through the veil into Kate Milligan’s Heaven and it was probably no mistake that Sariel had left them so close. The Campbells and then the Winchesters would have been next, climbing along Heaven’s branches towards that enviable peak and the throne at its heart.

Blood smeared on Michael’s lips when Adam kissed him, rough and greedy, as though he knew Michael would pull away at the first chance because, somewhere out there, Gabriel was chasing Sariel on his own. Sariel, who was wielding the archangels’ names like fine blades, had left Sam and Adam to their carnage in those gardens of Heaven in confused agony with their walls torn down.

Michael could only drag Adam away when Castiel swept down and all but threw the human at him like he was a live bomb, before disappearing to retrieve Sam.

At first, Adam fought him, and he was fast, but Michael’s entire purpose was war. He could have left Adam in that warded bar to wreak his chaos, but the insane lilt to Adam’s laughter made him stop and wonder. That was the cage escaping from him and Michael didn’t like that sound.

He caught Adam’s hands the next time they swung for him, smothered the lash of fury from Adam’s soul, and humoured his attempts to tear Michael’s skin with teeth, the wound in Michael’s side already healing.

Adam was impossibly strong and barely grunted when Michael slammed him against the brick wall, raining mortar dust in their hair. Adam’s laugh had been delighted and secret, curling low when Michael pried the bloody hands from his side, pinning them by Adam’s shoulders.

Adam grinned back at him with eyes glazed white and someone else’s blood smeared on his cheek.

Every time Adam’s heart beat, Michael shuddered with the hot rush of Adam’s rage and _hunger_ through his own vessel’s every muscle, vein, and thought. He felt it twice over from the alien instincts that shocked through the lingering connection of his name, rippling through flesh into grace, then from the almost violent force behind Adam’s kiss that drew him in until the back of Adam’s head hit the wall.

Michael had sworn he’d never do this. He would never lower himself to the mires of human lust, greed and wrath that had distracted his brothers, but this human held the key to his return to Heaven, and somehow _this_ is what Adam needed (this or destruction). It didn’t bear thinking about what would happen to Michael’s plans if he let his means fall to pieces. He could do this much.

Adam pulled at their clothes, cotton and denim tearing when Michael helped him, and a single pass down Adam’s arms brought Michael’s hands away slick with foreign blood. Releasing Adam’s hands, he noted how easily the human let Michael spread his thighs against the wall, but Adam’s grip on his arms dug sharp like a warning at the first blunt push of Michael’s fingers into him. He watched Adam’s eyes slide half-shut, mouth falling open in a gasp as he thrust with his fingers once, scissoring on the second withdraw (too wide, too quick, he knew from the way Adam’s body trembled, his soft mewling growl), and Adam cried out at the final brutal push of three, then four fingers deep, of grace and heat as Michael spread him open and held him there for a shuddering breath, and Adam broke the skin on his arms when Michael’s fingers slipped out, he pulled one of Adam’s thighs tighter around his waist and thrust up as he pushed Adam down onto his cock.

He should have been prepared for it. He didn’t expect this to clamp down on his senses like a strike to his grace, feeling the racing drum of his pulse ricochet through his own vessel in shock. For one long moment, he could only register the licks of heat everywhere Adam touched him, palms sliding over Michael’s skin, and Adam’s chest shook with that low, mocking laugh against the shell of Michael’s ear.

 _“Is your answer death, Michael?”_

It was confusing that Adam hadn’t uttered an intelligible syllable until Michael was inside him, trying to end his noise, and Michael was having difficulty understanding through the dense cloud of sensation.

 _“If I killed them all, would you stay with me?”_ Adam formed his proposal at the corner of the angel’s lips, teeth catching and opening Michael to a filthy, possessive kiss when the angel’s lips parted. But then Michael adjusted his leverage, drove in hard, and the white hot crest was like a strike to his gut, threatening to melt his knees. Adam groaned with relish and dragged his mouth to suck the blood he’d smeared at Michael’s jaw, his grip curled behind Michael’s neck, and Michael had never realised his own need to breathe until then.

He actually wanted this. He _wanted_ Adam. He knew it was sin that made him want to crush Adam against him and never let go, but he couldn’t tell if this was from himself or the shivering hunger rolling off Adam; their connection had distorted everything. Michael had endured months of feeling the human’s tug of longing mixed with confusion and anger like the constant ache of a wound that refused to heal in the heart of his temporary vessel. He knew Adam could cherish him and only him, but right then, he just wanted to make Adam senseless until he forgot he had ever been taught to speak.

 _“Stay with me.”_ Adam smirked and pressed his forehead to Michael’s.

Michael was too consumed by the sweat-slick strength of Adam rolling down onto him to answer. He thought he might have heard bones click when the next shove of Michael’s hips drove Adam hard against the wall, cold rough brick scraping along his back.

Michael found his revelation when Adam gasped, then stuttered to a surprised moan. The slow, slackening pleasure that trembled through Adam each time Michael withdrew was better than the sadistic laughter and Michael realised that if he kept Adam pinned like this, rocking into him over and over, slow and hard and steady, Adam may have tried tearing his arms to ribbons and bruising them as he fought for leverage, but he wouldn’t catch his breath.

The first time Michael’s release hit him, something came apart in the wall as he muffled his wretched groan against Adam’s neck. After, they’d crumbled to the cold, cement floor, Adam wrapped around him, but Adam’s desire had still raged like an open furnace against his grace and, trembling from the aftershocks, Michael caught the hands scraping short nails up his sides.

 _“You look so fucking gorgeous like this,”_ Adam had smirked up against his mouth when Michael rolled him onto his back and pulled Adam’s hips into his lap, hooked Adam’s knee over his shoulder as the other wrapped around his waist. Adam’s eyes were still white and he was breathing hard as Michael slid down, bracing himself.

 _“Adam.”_ Michael watched Adam’s breath hitch as Michael parted him again, wilfully ignoring the hard, weeping erection Adam tried to thrust against his stomach. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. _“You look like a demon.”_

Michael fought the instinct drawing his eyes shut as he rocked into Adam again. It was like a collar being pulled tight around his throat, exquisite and suffocating, and he watched the long, pale line of Adam’s neck extend as his head fell back with a grateful whimper.

 _“Michael, please….”_

Michael caught his hands again when Adam tried reaching down to take hold of himself. Adam moved back against his thrusts, limbs melting as Michael seemed to find the angle that made him shiver and moan. Adam tasted like salt and copper and the thick, raw burn of the cage. Although he lacked any basis for comparison, even Michael knew something wasn’t right when Adam still hadn’t come by that second time he pushed Michael over the edge, fingers piercing the concrete by Adam’s ear like tissue paper. When his vision cleared, he felt the light touch on his face and noticed the glaze fading from Adam’s eyes. Adam stared at him with an expression of curious wonder, but there was pain there, too, and he trembled every time he breathed out.

Michael meant to ask if this was normal and Adam must have seen the question in his face because his hand was over the angel’s mouth in the next instant. Michael felt the heat of his shuddering exhale as Adam shook his head. If this was the way Adam wanted it then Michael could agree that he didn’t care enough to ask.

Adam was slick, warm, potentially addictive heat constricted tight around him and that was enough. When his fingers fell away, Michael tilted his head to catch Adam’s mouth. He swallowed Adam’s groan of relief when he let Adam wrap both their hands around himself, stroking with long pulls as Adam’s other hand gripped Michael’s hips and took him in deeper.

But something was wrong, Adam’s relief soon turned to frustration, and Michael had favoured Adam’s wince, pulling out almost ten minutes later and sitting back on his haunches. He could feel how close Adam was and how long he’d been poised against it, but nothing made a difference.

Chest heaving against the strain, Adam surprised him with the strength of his will, staggering to his feet and then pulled Michael after him the few steps to the bar top. Michael had his first taste of human beer as Adam siphoned it straight from the draught. Adam laughed when half the glass spilled down Michael’s front. Michael failed to suppress the smile at the bright amusement in Adam’s voice, thready hiss of the cage almost gone, but then Adam had stooped to lick, suck, and lap up the mess from his chest and Michael forgot to stop him.

When Adam dropped to his knees, Michael had meant to pull him back up, to warn that men didn’t bow to angels, but then Adam swallowed him down, his palm rolling and massaging Michael’s balls between his legs, the roar of hot, wet pleasure trembled through his vessel, and the wooden bar top splintered under his grip. Michael sagged against the bar watching Adam’s lips stretch around him, cheeks hollowed as his tongue and throat sucked and kneaded and pulled him down in the most blissful, urgent sense of drowning.

 _“Adam,”_ Michael groaned, burying a hand in Adam’s hair, almost brought to his knees by the slick, persistent heat that laved the tip of his cock. He barely recognised his own voice, hoarse and desperate.

In that one selfish moment, a muted part of him wondered if maybe that was already falling, but he was too confused by Adam’s urgency, and then Adam’s heady moan that vibrated through him right down to his bones, as though Adam was enjoying this as much – if not more – than Michael.

Adam had looked amazing, but it wasn’t until he was splayed across the bar top, legs around Michael’s waist, hair matted to his forehead, and a low whine in his throat, that something changed. Before that final crest, Michael lifted his lips from Adam’s chest, Adam had tilted up to kiss him and Michael saw his opening through the haze of lust because Adam’s eyes were clear again: blue.

He had barely sunk fingers through Adam’s chest to band-aid the void and the moment his grace brushed the raw, exposed edges of Adam’s soul, Adam was coming hard across both their stomachs, head thrown back in a strangled scream. He tensed with the strain of release he’d been bowed against for over an hour, expression pulled tight, his fingers dug into Michael’s arm and the sweaty skin at his nape. Adam made it look like agony and Michael gasped at the shuddering pain-confused-pleasure when Adam’s soul clawed for him and hooked in, searing to his grace. He felt Adam’s heart racing like it was his own, a staccato rhythm that would punch out of his chest, it was too heavy, too fast, it was devastating, and it seemed to last for minutes as Adam moaned and whimpered through it.

If Michael had known the permanence of crossing a hollowed soul with nameless grace at the time, he wouldn’t have crushed Adam against the bar and drank down his weak, wounded noise, or held him as he was exhausted and panting, when the air rushed back between them.

Michael expected Adam to beg again, to plead once more for Michael to stay with him. Adam had looked up at him, blue eyes dark, and he curled fingers in Michael’s hair.

 _“Your house is burning, Michael,”_ Adam said, surprising him. His voice was rough as his breaths calmed, but his words were clear. _“He’s going after Raphael.”_

-*-

There are many Heavens. The Heavens of mortals between which angels can pass, and the Heavens of the Host where they were breathed into life, trained, and lingered before the mortals extended the branches of Heaven. These had been empty and cold for millennia as the angels settled within the warmer, animated realities of their mortal charges. At the highest peaks, there is one Heaven behind a door that only four have stood within since the beginning of understanding.

The door had closed before the first civil war in Heaven ended, clicking shut one day without ceremony or recognition, and only after Gabriel vanished did Raphael and Michael realise the door was actually sealed, that if God was indeed inside, there was no speaking to him now.

That room held the highest seat in Heaven and who ever held the throne held the Kingdom.

With Lucifer’s fall and Gabriel’s desertion, the four keys required to enter had been lost.

But there was one angel that had come dangerously close to opening the door again and reclaiming that high seat.

Sariel had been to Raphael as Raphael had been a comrade, confidante, and first lieutenant to Michael.

He’d left Raphael lying in a pool of her own blood, grace brimming between her fingers where Sariel had torn her name from her and, with it, her mantle and forgotten abilities as a Healer. On the floor of Mary Winchester’s Heaven, the living room carpet grew dark beneath her and Raphael was surprised at the shadow that fell across her face.

 _“Well. Now I have a dilemma.”_ Balthazar looked over the felled archangel, then back at Sam and Dean’s mother who had summoned him. _“Are you sure you want me to do this?”_

Mary had shook her head, blonde curls bouncing with the movement. Her hands were still bloody from where they had tried to stem Raphael’s wound.

 _“Nobody is dying in my Heaven.”_

Balthazar had sighed and Raphael thought this woman was foolish. She had no idea what Raphael had done to Balthazar to bleed information for Castiel’s strategy. If Castiel had not found them in the end, she may have succeeded in breaking him.

She was surprised, for the second time, when Balthazar kneeled down and she growled at the hand that reached for her.

 _“Don’t touch me, insect.”_

 _“Michael didn’t betray you.”_

Raphael stared at him in shock. Of all the ways he could have persuaded her to let him keep his hands, that was not one of the things she had expected he would say, and the surprise must have showed in her face.

 _“Do you want to see your brother again?”_ Balthazar asked her, expression stern.

Sariel had taken Raphael’s blade. Raphael would not get her revenge from oblivion.

Balthazar’s grip was firm and strong as he helped her stand. Mary only hesitated a moment when Balthazar extended his hand for her to join them and her eyes slid shut as Balthazar guided Raphael’s grace to her soul.

-*-

It’s frustrating that Dean doesn’t wait for him, winding ahead through the labyrinth, but Michael doesn’t expect to get lost.

He turns the corner, only the space of a few heartbeats behind Dean, and finds himself abruptly alone.

“Dean?”

He turns on the spot, looks back the way he had come. The sun shines mockingly bright and kind on every bend of the tall, green hedges, but Dean is nowhere in sight. He peers around the two visible corners in the labyrinth and draws back after finding nothing.

This was strange.

What was Gabriel’s venture in this?

He hears the quiet steps on the gravel a moment before he thinks, ah, he’s not alone after all, but the stride isn’t Dean and the steps are too light.

He looks back just as Lucifer rounds the corner and draws up, looking just as surprised to see him.

They stare at each other for a moment and it’s unnerving, Michael finally realises, that there are no insects, nor the call of birdsong, to break the silence.

“I lost Sam,” Lucifer finally says, reluctantly.

Michael nods slowly and looks to the path ahead. It looked as good as any.

“I lost Dean,” he admits. That seemed to be happening a lot today.

He gestures for Lucifer to take the lead, but Lucifer shakes his head with an involuntary almost-smile and motions for Michael to go first. It’s absurdly polite and against Michael’s better judgment, he finally acquiesces, allowing Lucifer to fall into step behind him.

Was there more afoot here? If Gabriel had intended for him and Dean to search as a team and their escape from this maze was somehow predicated on them staying together, Michael wouldn’t put it past him to separate them just for fun. Some things with Gabriel never changed.

“Have you received any revelation for Gabriel’s intention?” Michael asks over his shoulder.

It takes so long for the response to come that he thinks Lucifer has so quickly been lost as well, but when he looks back, Lucifer is only a few paces behind, his expression downcast and thoughtful.

“If his intention is to keep me here, wandering forever, he’ll be disappointed,” Lucifer says, “This is no cage.”

Michael sighs. He’s not one to roll his eyes, but he understands the exasperation as he waits for Lucifer to catch up to him.

“Walk with me,” he says and starts again with Lucifer at his side, the shorn hedges brushing his arm. “Do you really think after all that you and Gabriel went through these last years that he would cross you now?”

“If it’s Gabriel, I wouldn’t put anything past him. I taught him everything he knows.”

“No, not everything,” Michael easily counters. “Where do you think he learned to trust? Not from you.”

“And not from you, either,” Lucifer murmurs, that same, innocent not-smile on his face when Michael glances a dark look at him.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Lucifer.”

“That boy really changed you.” It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

Michael sighs, he won’t rise to this… he won’t –

“Are you saying you haven’t changed for Sam? Or Gabriel?”

“If I’ve changed at all, it’s been for myself,” Lucifer answers, easily.

They stop at another intersection, consider the fork in the road and head down the left path.

“Well, no one complains that you’ve ended your campaign for hell on Earth.”

“Or that you decided to let the humans live.”

“… It wasn’t really a choice.”

“I know: genocide is too passé.”

Michael stops walking as the path opens to a small courtyard, the first they’ve encountered. There’s a small, stone water feature at the centre, trickling quiet and soothing from its spout.

“Are you calling me selfish? You’ve taken Sam _and_ Gabriel.”

Lucifer gives him a knowing smile.

“At least I don’t deceive myself. I wanted _them_ more than the apocalypse.”

“… I gave up everything—“

“No, Michael, you just gave up.”

Lucifer weaves through the smaller border of hedges around the fountain and dips his fingers into the shallow pool.

“I didn’t give up,” Michael says.

“You weren’t alone in that cage, you know. I saw you. I felt you. You weren’t built to withstand that cold. God is dead. To you, we’re dead. I know you just needed a reason, but that boy isn’t enough for you.”

“And I should be more like you? Collect as many that would have me?”

“I love Sam. I love Gabriel.” Lucifer says it as though Michael hasn’t heard it a hundred times before.

“I love Adam.” Michael shrugs, not knowing where Lucifer is going with this.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Lucifer shakes his head. “You don’t _love_ that boy, you _needed_ him. You still need him.”

Michael frowns.

“I don’t understand your distinction.”

“I told him what you did. I told him about the two of you – in the beginning, and then in the cage.”

How was it possible to feel like he was falling without taking flight?

Michael stares at Lucifer for a long time, stung with the betrayal and surprised to realise he may have expected differently from Lucifer, even after all this time.

“Why would you do that?” he still asks, voice hushed.

Lucifer shrugs.

“You should have told him, but I knew you wouldn’t. A past like yours isn’t one you can keep secret, Michael.”

“That wasn’t your call to make!”

“A world without lies isn’t too much to ask for, is it? For the righteous son, you lie too easily. What sort of foundation is that?”

Michael glares as Lucifer tears off a small branch from the hedge and slowly strips its leaves.

“What did you do to him?”

“I gave him nothing but the truth. If it’s any consolation, he’s not a fan of me either, right now.”

“That’s no consolation; don’t say it like you’re sorry.”

“I _am_ sorry for you, because you still don’t know the difference, Michael. I had to learn. Adam is just a boy, but it could have been anyone – you just needed a reason! If all you needed was a new purpose, you could have chosen anyone.”

Lucifer seldom shouts and even now his voice has dropped to a soft plea, begging Michael to understand, but this is more devastating than if Lucifer had shaken him.

Michael slowly shakes his head.

“No.”

That might have been true once, but he honestly believes that Adam was his now and the rite they had undertaken before Adam lost his memory, before the Adam of this present time was lost, was irreversible.

“It couldn’t have been just anyone, Lucifer… you and I had our chance. We chose to fight.”

“You chose Dad.” Lucifer doesn’t miss a beat and Michael is relieved that his brother understands what they’re talking about.

“I chose loyalty. You should have done the same.”

“And what did it get you? How did he reward you? We’re just the same now. We were grasping, but now we can _live_.” Lucifer huffs an incredulous chuckle. “I barely even understand what that means yet, but we get to find out!”

But this is an old argument and Michael is not having it again. Lucifer was right on one point: there was little reward for loyalty now.

“I love you, Lucifer,” he says, quietly, “but we chose to fight. We chose other people. You don’t love them any less than I love Adam, at least give me that.”

Lucifer chuckles, a soft and resigned sound. He tosses the thin, stripped branch into the fountain.

“Love isn’t needy, Michael. It doesn’t cling, it leaves us to make our own decisions, and it gives freely. _They_ made me remember that. Maybe if you remembered, too, you wouldn’t be so afraid of losing Adam.”

He wonders if Lucifer knows that Adam is from another time, that Adam was broken from the cage only days ago and came to Michael here.

“Lucifer,” Michael starts slowly, “There is something pulling Adam out of this space and time. Can you look at me now and swear to me that you have never and _will_ never try to take him from me?”

Lucifer blinks at him, looking curiously puzzled.

“Honestly, I can tell you it isn’t me. But it sounds like you have a dilemma.”

Michael sighs and finally decides to leave this courtyard. Their dilemma? That was an understatement.

He needs to get back to Adam.

“This was a good talk,” Lucifer says, brightly and Michael thinks he sounds obnoxious. “Just think about what I said.”

“Being in a three-way doesn’t make you an expert on these things. And mind your own business.”

Lucifer clucks his tongue and tilts his head with a welcome shrug.

“But if you ever need-“

“I’ll ask you.”

-*-

“Why isn’t the sun moving?” Sam moans at the sky, because, seriously, how was he supposed to navigate without the sun moving from its highest point? “Gabriel, some of us have things to do!”

Like money to earn, a mortgage to pay off, and brothers to talk down from doing anything – everything – stupid.

He’d lost Lucifer what felt like hours ago, turned the corner and found himself alone. He’d doubled back, but even the path behind him looked changed and nothing answered his calls. At some point, he had to admit that he was lost.

It strikes him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly _alone._

There was always somebody hovering at his shoulder, somebody in the other room, or just down the phone line.

This labyrinth was quiet and it made him nervous.

What did Gabriel want? Sam thought they were past these pranks.

Every row of hedges looks like the last and Sam’s feet are aching in their boots when the scenery finally changes.

He stumbles around another corner and gapes at the courtyard that opens in front of him.

The courtyard with its row of hedges, a stone bench, and a slow, swirling nebula in black space beyond it, as though the labyrinth just ended and somebody had put in a viewing deck to the universe.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It was nothing like the small nebulae spotted through those observatory telescopes when he was a kid on that rare outing John had surprised him with when a job had taken them close enough. His chest had burned with excitement and the gratitude he didn’t think anything could ever compare to again. God, he’d loved his dad that night.

Sam staggers towards the stone bench, his harsh breaths ringing in his ears and he’s grateful for somewhere to sit. The nebula is a branching spiral of blues and greens like clouds and smoke in the dark and Sam wonders if it’s real or just a figment of Gabriel’s imagination.

It looks close enough to touch, but he holds his hand back and the longer Sam stares, seeking the veins of detail in every filament, the more still he becomes, humbled by this miracle of nature.

Fake or not, the sense of peace that settles over Sam is very, very real. He had no idea how much he needed this.

 _Thank you_ , he prays.

-*-

Dean is pretty sure that Michael deserted him.

He doesn’t know how the featherhead managed that when Dean had checked behind every corner and even watched the awesome spectacle of Michael trying to fly out – disappearing only to bounce back into vision with a too-human sprawl in the grass somewhere further down the path. That could have entertained him for at least another twenty minutes.

 _At least._

When he first sees Castiel, Dean thinks he’s imagined it. But this isn’t the desert, there are no mirages here, and he’s the first human-shaped figure Dean’s seen since Michael in what feels like over an hour.

“Cas?” Dean doubles back, thinks he sees Castiel turn to the sound of his voice, frowning, but when Dean ducks his head around the corner there’s nothing but hedges.

Dean looks both ways. Huh.

The next time he sees Castiel, Dean is ready for it.

The angel is at the end of the path almost ten yards from Dean when he rounds the corner. Castiel’s arms are hanging by his sides and he’s peering up at the sky in the same patient, analytical way that Michael had before he started tumbling out of the garden walls.

Dean brightens, seeing his familiar profile, and quickly starts toward him.

“Cas! Hey!”

Castiel’s gaze falls from the sky and Dean thinks the angel’s heard him, but instead of Dean, Castiel regards the cross-section of open paths ahead of him. Castiel looks to his hands like he should see something there and Dean recognises that doubtful frown.

“Cas? Hey, buddy, wait up!” Dean calls, quickening his stride to a jog when Castiel still shows no indication of hearing him.

Why was Cas being such a dick today? Well, more than usual.

Castiel looks between the two paths on either side of him. Dean comes to a stop just a few paces away and feels something sink in his stomach because Castiel won’t look at him.

Castiel’s frown deepens at the path to his left and, when he finally faces Dean, he looks right through him.

“… Cas?” Dean steps forward tentatively. He waves a hand in front of Castiel’s face and that horrible sinking feeling plummets when the angel shows no reaction. Dean checks behind him for whatever seems to be holding Castiel’s attention, sees nothing, and looks back into his friend’s narrowed expression of concentration. “Hey. Hey, man, tell me you can see me.”

In response, Castiel looks towards the path to his right and decides to go left.

Dean sticks right on his heels, the angel’s trench coat brushing his side as it billows and it surprises Dean how fast Castiel could walk when nobody else was watching. It actually surprises him more that Castiel was still walking at all, but he’s concerned that at any second the angel’s going to take flight again, leaving Dean to search for another hour or two before he has any company to speak of.

If Castiel’s here it means he found a way into Gabriel’s labyrinth, which means there’s a way out.

Castiel can lead them out… if only he’ll look at Dean.

“Cas, can’t you hear me?” Dean snaps, matching the angel’s stride.

Castiel studies the border of the grassy path beneath their feet, lips pursed in thought.

“Cas, hey!” Dean smacks his shoulder. His hand passes right through and he rears back in surprise. He stares at his hands, turning them over, and he thinks Gabriel has pulled something above his ordinary standards of weird.

When he looks up, Castiel has already put a significant length of distance between them.

“… Cas?” Dean wonders aloud, feeling a flood of relief when Castiel stops and looks back over his shoulder, face full of suspicion. Dean’s smile wavers and he raises his hand as though it would help the angel spot him. “Hey!”

But Castiel’s expression closes, he looks forward once again and by the time Dean’s moved himself from crushed to indignant, the angel’s disappeared.

Dean’s fists ball at his sides.

“Get your ass back here, you dick!” he shouts at the sky. “Cas!”

Predictably, nothing comes of it.

-*-

Every single video Adam and Gabriel watch is another testimony of something that went horribly wrong, or a note to his future self of the day’s lesson learned, sometimes at the cost of new bandages, splints, or a bottle of pills that Adam shoved out of view after popping what looked like double the recommended dosage.

There’s no editing. There’s no post-production here.

The worst videos are those where Adam seems to have forgotten he’s hit the record button at all, that he’s supposed to be documenting something constructive from the recent trials. Instead, the off-centre video feed shows Adam slumped in his chair, knuckle brushing back and forth over his lips, searching for some reason to what sometimes seemed senseless, Gabriel told him. In other videos, Adam’s attention was far away, searching the far wall in the longest case for a full minute of silence before he reached up and just slammed the laptop shut.

Sam and Dean are in some of the videos, too, but they don’t seem to know that Adam is recording.

During one of the videos, Adam was halfway through recounting Castiel’s suspicion that Balthazar had been abducted by Raphael when Sam and Dean barrelled through the motel door. Dean was moaning in agony, arm slung over Sam’s shoulder as Sam set him down on one of the beds and shouted for Adam to grab the med-kit.

Gabriel looks at him in surprise when Adam stops at video eleven and skips ahead to number twenty.

“Uh, I think you might have missed some, kid—“

“I’m seeing a whole lot of shit, Gabriel. But we’re all still together. Better than together – we’ve come over the Goddamn rainbow, so I want to see something that shows me what the hell we all stuck around for.”

Another video starts, the picture jumping as though the camera or laptop was being held while in motion and it’s the first video that’s shown the outside of a motel room.

It’s a car park and it looks like dawn.

The picture lowers near the ground and steadies as it sets on someone’s knee. The camera is spun around to show what looks like a small _barrel_ of fireworks on a doormat.

 _“If you bail when they come out to kill us, I’m nailing your wings to the wall.”_

Adam recognises his own voice.

 _“Is that it?”_ comes the sly retort and when the camera spins again, it becomes clear that it’s Gabriel’s hands fixing the last of the fuses. He smirks at Adam holding the camera, then directly into the lens. _“Going old school for my buddy here. Doesn’t realise what he’s costing me in face time with his brother.”_

“I remember this,” Gabriel says brightly. “That was a good day.”

Adam rolls his eyes and closes that video, too.

“Adam, what you’re looking for isn’t going to be here. You wouldn’t carry it with you on hunts and nobody actually records their emo heart-to-hearts.”

Adam scowls at the archangel sitting on the bed beside him.

“What the hell am I supposed to think? I saw my mom in Heaven, there are angels in my house that I don’t remember buying, I’m a doctor of a town I don’t remember moving to, I have brothers that I’ve never even heard of, and there’s a bunch of psychopaths in my backyard! One of them even thinks he’s with me!” He points at the accused laptop. “I thought I was in love with _him_? Seriously? After _everything_ he put me through?”

Gabriel sighs.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, man, but there were things that weren’t on that video—“

“Like what? Like when he tried to tear his name out of my soul and almost killed both of us? Like when he set a trap for Sam and Dean and almost erupted Yellowstone? Or maybe like the fact I was so in over my head I was making him drink my _blood_ because he couldn’t wear us?”

“No—“

“What the _fuck_ , Gabriel? It doesn’t make sense!”

Gabriel actually pushes his shoulder, a hard shove to get his attention.

“Would you shut the hell up and let me talk? Honestly, you would never believe I used to be a voice that made Mary sit up and listen.”

“Tell me how this makes sense!”

“You loved him! _I_ don’t know _why_ , but when you came back...." Gabriel glances away like he's doing a calculation. "You came from here. You were already in love. Adam, you don’t know what it does to us when we share our names: we feel _everything_ you feel and we can’t turn it off. You were such a persistent pain in the ass and you had me to keep you alive this time, it was a war of attrition.”

Adam slackens in disbelief, remembering a crack Dean made about their initial strategy to stop the apocalypse when they first met in Bobby’s house.

“Why? _Why_ would I love that and… you’re trying to tell me love saved the world?”

“I’m an archangel, not a mind reader. Love dumbed down the generals, thanks to you knuckleheads.”

“What, that’s your final answer? Love?” Adam can’t believe that’s all there was to it. There’s always something more and it was too neat, too simple.

Gabriel shrugs. He looks tired.

“All you need is….”

“I’m not buying it.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes with exasperation when Adam pushes off from the bed and follows him downstairs.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some answers. Fuck, I can’t believe I almost slept with him.”

“Michael? Uh, he’s a little busy right now—“

“Gabriel!” Adam stops just before the back door, body tensed and fists clutched at his sides.

“Adam, kid,” Gabriel warns, “Please don’t push this.”

“Help me.”

Gabriel sighs guiltily when Adam looks back over his shoulder, catching his eye.

“Come on,” Gabriel tries to coax him, pleading.

“You said you’re my best friend. _Help me_.”

It takes a long moment and a steady staring contest, but Gabriel eventually shakes his head.

“For the record: I thought this was a bad idea.”

Gabriel opens the door for him and Adam walks into a tall garden labyrinth.

What?

He turns back, but the door is gone and he’s alone in the sunny, green-walled path.

That is, until Michael rounds the corner, looking surprised and at the same time relieved to see him.

Those videos flash through Adam’s mind, all the wounds, haggard looks, and his brother’s tight faces of pain compounded in seconds. He charges up the path’s incline towards the archangel.

“Adam—“

Adam throws off the hands Michael reaches for him and shoves him hard in the chest. Michael stumbles back too few disappointing steps, looking confused.

“What—?“

“You’re a Goddamn liar! You let me sit at that stupid table and eat out of your hand believing a fantasy!”

Adam sees the moment Michael understands, expression going slack. Adam sees his regret and Michael’s solution, for some reason, is to try reaching for him again. Adam shoves his hands away violently.

“It wasn’t a lie. Listen to me: it was for your own good – if you had remembered –“

Adam barks a laugh.

“Remembered what? How you _tortured_ me into being a puppet, how you used _my_ hands to kill? Or how about how you and Lucifer stuck us with flesh-eating barbed wire, set us as bombs against each other, or how you tore and burned us alive? Sam and I were _alive_!”

Michael’s expression is sombre. He keeps his hands to himself.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that, I’m not that person anymore and I know there’s nothing I can say to compensate for what we did, but if I hadn’t asked Castiel to seal those memories—“

Adam baulks.

“Castiel? He was in on this, too? Wait a minute, wait a minute… did everybody know but me?”

“You have to stop thinking about it, Adam, it’ll bring those memories closer to the surface; it’s just the past, but they could kill you.”

“Your _past_ is still my present, you jackass.”

He came here for answers, but Michael’s placid condescension was making it really hard to see reason, or want anything more than to punch that stupid, false, handsome face.

“Just take a deep breath and calm—“

“I want you to take your name back.”

Michael goes completely still and his voice drops.

“What?”

“Enough of this bull! I want you out of here and you said you can’t fly home without it, so take it!”

Michael looks stunned, horrified, though everything was so subtle about him that Adam was willing to dismiss it altogether.

“I – no. I can’t.” Michael’s voice is a low, hurt sound and it infuriates him.

“I’m _giving_ it to you!” Adam shouts and that’s when Lucifer rounds the corner.

At first, Adam’s instinct is to back down, people shouldn’t have an audience when they’re at this volume, but then he remembers these aren’t people, these are the things that held him down and tore into him, watching with abstract fascination every time his soul felt like it was imploding at the slightest touch.

This is Lucifer, who, maybe as some sort of penance, has given him a way out.

The sounds Adam forms are butchered and awkward, but from the way Michael’s eyes widen, he seems to recognise the first syllables of his true name easily enough.

His hand immediately clamps over Adam’s mouth before Adam even registers that he’s moved.

“Don’t,” Michael pleads, “Don’t do this.”

God, his eyes were gorgeous. Adam wants to tear them out.

“Knock him out,” Lucifer pipes in helpfully for his brother after Adam pushes unsuccessfully against Michael’s chest and pulls at his hands.

“Be quiet,” Michael snaps over his shoulder. Adam stomps on Michael’s foot, shoving against his elbows, which just earns him an exasperated look that twists into earnest plea. “Stop it. _Please_.”

He glares, breathing harshly through his nose and understanding slowly crosses Michael’s features. Adam is still pushing at his arms when the archangel draws up, shoulders pushing back, his hands loosening over Adam’s mouth and the back of his head.

“I’ll leave. All right? We’ll leave,” Michael amends, catching the glance Adam spares for Lucifer over his shoulder. “Right, Lucifer?”

Lucifer shrugs.

“I don’t even live here. Sam has to work on the other side of the country tomorrow, anyway.”

Michael looks back at Adam hesitantly.

“We’re leaving. I’m going to remove my hands, but don’t – don’t say my name. If you lose it, it could _kill_ you.”

Adam’s been there, he’s done that, and from what he remembers, there were worse things than dying. He nods anyway and drags in a deep, unsteady breath after Michael carefully pulls his hands back.

“Why did you do it?” Adam asks sharply.

“Give you my name?” Michael frowns.

“Why didn’t you just take your name back in the war? You could have forced me. You’ve done that before.”

Something raw flinches in Michael’s expression and suddenly Lucifer shoulders past him, nudging his brother’s arm. Lucifer is not that much taller, but the way he holds himself makes him appear to tower and Adam abruptly remembers that this is the devil staring him down.

“It’s a choice, Adam, like I told you. You had to be there to understand.” Lucifer’s voice is cold. “We’re leaving.”

Michael’s face is drawn as he looks from Lucifer to Adam, but he eventually follows Lucifer down the shallow hill. He hesitates at the bend and Adam looks away before Michael can catch him watching. When he looks up, they’re gone.

So much for answers.

He reaches for the hedge, sagging against it, but then keeps falling and flails for a moment before he lands on the couch in his living room and realises he’s back.

Gabriel is there waiting for him.

“So?”

Adam opens his hand and finds a palm full of torn-off leaves. Their sap smears stickily between his fingers.

“He’s leaving.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean thinks he needs to get back into the habit of wearing a watch.

He feels like he’s been walking for hours. It can’t be hours. His palms are sweating and his shirt sticks to his back. He can count it’s been one-hundred-and-seventy-eight corners and a surprise courtyard with fountain effects since he’s seen another living being.

He doesn’t consciously believe that he’s looking for Castiel, but every time he rounds the bend he looks for the first sign of a pale trench coat or that dark head of hair tilted in curiosity.

Dean doesn’t want to see another fucking garden hedge for as long as he lives. He tried climbing their height, but found that although they resisted every attempt to be ploughed through, they would completely bend under his weight and the pull of his hands.

Great design, Gabe, thanks.

Dean is _starving_. It’s making him light-headed and just weak enough to sway and grab for the nearest hedge when he takes the turns too quickly. He hasn’t seen any of the marks he slashed into the ground to mark his way, unless he accidentally doubled back and he’s beginning to think that this labyrinth will go on forever.

 _You’ve all lost something_ , Gabriel had said.

It was nice of Cas to come and help Dean in the search, but it wasn’t going to do him any good if he couldn’t find the angel again.

He finally sinks to his knees at an intersection of three paths and leans his hands on his thighs, his stomach knotting tight with hunger.

“Cut me some slack, Gabriel,” Dean groans and forces himself to raise his head, looking between his options. Every path looked the same. His lip curls, anger rising with the unique frustration of staggering around on an empty stomach when he knew Bobby had made the special effort of bacon and eggs – this was _Bobby_ over a stove, it was worth taking a picture – for all of them that morning.

And then Michael had gone his own way, the bastard.

“Michael!” Dean shouts. He twists around, but nothing stirs on any of the paths. “Gabriel! C’mon, Cas, I’m right here!”

He sits back on his haunches, defeated, when he’s answered only by the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“I’m right here.” He sighs and shakes his head. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and he winces, palming the bead away. He feels jittery and thinks he’s getting weak if lack of food was affecting him so soon, but then he reminds himself that he doesn’t have any measure of time here.

He groans and lets his head hang back. He was so damn _hungry._

“Where’s Freddie and his hedge trimmers when you need him?” He grumbles and forces himself back to his feet.

When he got his hands on Gabriel, he was going to wring his neck. Nobody kept Dean Winchester from his bacon and eggs when they were so fresh that Dean could point to the exact farm they’d come from. Well, he could, if he wasn’t blinded by this green labyrinth.

Dean’s so busy studying the likeliest choice for his next venture that he almost misses the angel that walks past right behind him.

Dean nearly gives himself whiplash when he catches the smear of cream-coloured material in his periphery.

“Cas!” He bolts after the angel with a head start on him.

Every motion of Castiel’s is deliberated, he steps with intent, and Dean sees he’s still scanning the lines of the path, the leaves of the hedges and Dean is just so stupidly grateful that Cas hadn’t given up on him yet.

He swallows his gratitude when he sees the other angel who appears at the bend to meet Castiel.

“Ah, there you are!” Balthazar hesitates and regards his brother cautiously.

“Balthazar… what are you doing here? Who’s watching—“

Balthazar cuts him off with a frown of impatience.

“I heard a rather disturbing thing, Cassie. A rumour that puts me in a lot of trouble, if it’s true.”

Castiel’s expression turns superior and he looks the other angel over from head to toe.

“Yes. I know.”

Balthazar blinks, straightening in surprise.

“It is? You _knew_ and you didn’t tell me? Why did I have to learn this sort of news—“

“I’ve known for days, Balthazar. Why _you_ didn’t notice yourself is the fault of your own ignorance. _Who_ is watching Sariel?”

Balthazar bristles at Castiel’s tone and Dean could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Balthazar angry.

The blond angel’s voice drops low and grave.

“ _Sariel_ is bound by ice, seals, and streams of the four – _nobody_ but your famous four are getting past that. He can stew for a few minutes while we have a conversation.”

Castiel shakes his head and Dean can see the tension the way he slowly forces himself to look away from Balthazar, his own patience wearing thin.

“We can’t afford to be arrogant, Balthazar—we watch him in pairs. Two of us at all times. That was our covenant so that he could live. You left Rachel by herself?”

Balthazar’s laugh is abrupt and bemused. He gestures with an open palm down the path.

“You can’t tell me being suspended in stasis on a _throne_ is living. You all made that decision without my vote, I clearly remember advising you to end him and be done with it. You dared to volunteer me for this, well, I’m sorry: something quite significant has come to my attention and I think you can do the courtesy of swapping shifts with me.”

“No.”

Balthazar looks stricken by utter betrayal, which twists into spite as he tightens his jaw.

“I beg your pardon?”

Castiel releases a slow breath and looks around them.

“I can’t. I am… unfortunately, stuck.”

“Oh, Cassie. Did you forget a failsafe?”

“A failsafe?” The low gravel of Castiel’s confusion is the best thing Dean’s heard all morning.

Balthazar motions over Castiel’s shoulder and Dean is surprised that the angel looks him in the eye.

“Well, for the two of you. This is a closed trap: the door only swings one way unless you’re quick enough to wedge it open and let’s face it: I _am_ flash.”

Dean frowns, stopping behind Castiel’s shoulder.

“You can see me?”

Castiel is also frowning, looking between Balthazar and Dean who apparently is still invisible to him.

“The two of who?” Castiel asks.

A slow look of understanding crosses Balthazar’s expression as he looks between them. He shakes his head.

“Oh, you’re kidding, right?”

Dean rolls his jaw, his fingers curling into a fist on impulse, but he remembers how much it hurt to punch an angel.

“I’ve been chasing this dick all morning trying to get him to notice me because Gabriel trapped us here and I can’t find my way out! And I haven’t had a Goddamn thing to eat all day!”

Castiel looks between Balthazar’s sceptical face and the space Dean’s occupying, not understanding and proving Dean’s point exactly.

“Did you hear what you just said?” Balthazar asks, rolling his eyes.

“If you’re not going to help me, then get the hell out of here!” Dean shouts.

“It’s Dean, isn’t it?” Castiel is hushed; there’s something like fear in his voice. “Is he here? Is he well? I’ve been searching for him all morning.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Cas, I’m right here.”

Balthazar shakes his head in disappointment.

“You might want to say that a bit louder,” He says.

Castiel’s look for his brother is droll and impatient.

“You’re a dick,” Dean agrees with Castiel’s silent assessment.

“And you’re stuck,” Balthazar counters with a smile. “This is one of Gabriel’s ploys, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dean and Castiel both answer, equal parts annoyed and frustrated, which apparently cracks Balthazar up.

“Well, did he leave you any clues?”

Dean huffs, tight and impatient.

“He said we’d all lost something. Couldn’t leave until we found it. He sent me in with Michael at first, but even _he_ got lost and –“

“Yes, understood, Deanna – and Cassie? He said you’re all a bit lost,” Balthazar says, taking liberty with his role as intermediary.

Castiel’s face pinches in confusion.

“Dean’s presence disappeared from the human plane. I was concerned and I followed him here.”

“And you’ve both been stuck?”

“I had breakfast waiting for me, man!”

“Well, you’ve found each other.” Balthazar stops and looks between them in that suspicious way again. “Or maybe not, after all. You see – or what you don’t see – is there are labyrinths within labyrinths _beside_ labyrinths where he’s left you. It’s a miracle you found each other at all.”

Castiel looks down and Dean thinks he sees guilt flash in the angel’s expression when he glances towards Dean, or where he would be if he had Balthazar’s perspective.

“But… I can’t see Dean. Why can you?”

“He’s closer than you realise.” Balthazar shrugs. “If I know Gabriel, and I’m glad to say that I do, I have a feeling the two of you aren’t leaving here until you find each other and every entendre that implies. So, have fun with that.”

“Hey!” Dean barks, just as Castiel calls, “Balthazar!”

Balthazar rounds back to them with a smirk of such smug conceit like he knows he’s won.

“I’m sorry, what?” He throws a pointed look at Castiel. “Was that a distress call for a _friend_ in a time of _need_?”

Castiel sighs, his head hanging for a moment before he opens his eyes with reluctance.

“Fine, I’ll help you in return.”

“I knew you could be reasonable.”

“But you need to speak to her yourself,” Castiel says, his expression unforgiving.

Dean has no idea what they’re talking about. He’s starting to hallucinate that he can smell baked potatoes. The strong hand that claps around his upper arm brings him back to the sad, stale reality of his situation with a slump.

“… Your own advice,” Balthazar is telling Castiel with that mischievous, self-serving look. “And let’s talk about feelings.”

Dean balks at the angel and shakes off the hand on his arm.

“What? I didn’t drift off for _that_ long.”

“Look, I’m not putting my foot in it, but when you’re ready – Bobby.”

Balthazar points skyward and the labyrinth peels back behind them to reveal Bobby sitting on a wooden chair in the grass with a thick book in his lap and a steaming mug of what Dean strongly suspects is Gabriel’s brew.

Bobby looks up from beneath his cap and Dean throws his hands wide for an explanation.

“Uh. It was Gabriel,” Bobby says, sounding that rare side of sheepish when he had an inkling he might have been caught out where he shouldn’t be.

Balthazar thrusts a hand towards Bobby.

“That’s your failsafe. When you’re fit to be released, Bobby can let you out.”

Castiel sighs in frustration, starting toward the older hunter.

“Bobby—“

Bobby blinks owlishly from Castiel to Dean, but before Castiel can insist, the hedges reform like a sentient wall of nature weaving back together.

“Bobby doesn’t actually make the choice, boys, and neither do I. He’s just your gatekeeper and that mug can keep refilling without risk of a bladder break for as long as it takes, so.” Balthazar shrugs like the decision is straightforward. “Have some pity on the man and cut your losses.”

Dean frowns when Balthazar turns for that heel.

“Wait a minute, why can _you_ leave?”

Balthazar shakes his head as though it’s a moot question.

“Foot in the door. Bobby?”

Bobby’s lips are to his mug when the wall peels back again and he deflates with exasperation at the fresh interruption.

“In or out. Pick one,” Bobby drawls.

Balthazar glances back at the men over his shoulder.

“I’m leaving because I _agreed_ to speak to my not-wife… if I can find her. Your turn, boys.”

Bobby shakes his head and shrugs helplessly when Dean sets after Balthazar, rearing back just in time to save himself from catching a mouthful of leaves as it closes behind the angel.

By the look on Castiel’s face when Dean rounds, he doesn’t think the angel wants to talk, and his fears are confirmed when Castiel looks up and his gaze passes right over him.

Castiel sighs, shaking his head.

“Dean. I don’t know if you’re still here, but if you are, and you can hear me… don’t go anywhere. We’ll figure this out.”

Dean watches Castiel settle himself cross-legged in the grass with a look of resignation and, eventually, Dean follows suit, leaning back into the garden wall.

His wrists lie on his knees and Castiel studies his fingers brushing the heads of grass. Dean has no idea where to start. He lets his head loll back, the sunlight makes him squint and he waits with Castiel for the miracle.

It’s maybe five minutes of silence and Dean idly ripping grass stalks from their roots, before Castiel speaks.

“I know why he’s doing this. In Gabriel’s mind, it’s probably simple. Maybe, in a way, my brother is right.” Castiel is looking the wrong way, down the garden path away from the hunter, but Dean’s vantage of his profile, of his resignation, is perfect. “It _is_ simple. In spite of what I want – what you might want – no one will ever be enough for you, Dean. I could never do enough to take first place in your life… I’ve fallen, I’ve sinned, I’ve killed my family. I even _died_ – and I would never ask you to push Sam aside. But I know that if you had to choose, you would exchange everything for Sam’s happiness. That’s _love_ , Dean. I’m proud of you… but I can’t be part of it. I can’t be with you knowing you would twist a knife in my back to save your brother in a heartbeat if it was the only way.”

Castiel shakes his head, but Dean feels like _he’s_ the one who’s just been stabbed with the knife. He watches in disbelief as the words tumble out of Castiel so easily and Dean feels his heart break.

“I love you, Dean. But I wouldn’t survive it. So, I’m saying ‘no’.”

-*-

It’s maybe an hour after Castiel’s admission that Dean realises they have company. He’d considered responding after Castiel had shown Dean his heart, but he hasn’t left much room for Dean to argue. Castiel’s already made up his mind and it kills him.

What’s worse is that he doesn’t know that Cas is wrong. He can’t guarantee that such a scenario wouldn’t come up in their line of work. Dean doesn’t know how long he’s wanted this, but he’s known all his life that Sam came first. Sam has always, always come first and in spite of how much Dean wants Cas to let Dean hold him, Dean can’t say he’s thought about how to make room for someone else. Finding a place in himself where Adam deserved to be had been an uphill battle in itself, but now Dean couldn’t imagine going back.

He doesn’t know how to love Cas any more than he already does. So, he stayed quiet (Cas wouldn’t have heard him anyway), an hour passed, and then there was another angel standing by Castiel’s knee.

“Hey, bro.”

Dean is surprised that Gabriel is here. He wasn’t the sort of angel that had a lot of pity, especially for people who couldn’t out-maneuverer his puzzles, but in comparison to his brothers, Gabriel bore the impression of a saint.

He’s standing over Castiel with his hands in his pockets, studying the younger angel’s slouch with a patient look of sympathy. Gabriel’s mouth quirks in a soft smile when Castiel looks up into his face, unaffected by the bright glare of the unmoving sun overhead.

Dean watches Castiel’s face fall as he leans into the dividing hedge at his back.

“Gabriel. Have you had enough fun today?” Castiel asks.

Another pair of shoes stops by Dean’s knee and he’s surprised for the second time that Gabriel’s brought company.

Adam’s face is sullen and Dean thinks he sees anger in the tight cord of his jaw, thinning the line of his mouth. Dean’s grateful that Adam’s here and able to look him straight in the eye. He’s had enough of being ignored for today.

Adam rocks on his feet and spares a glance for the archangel before he sinks to sit cross-legged beside Dean in the grass. The energy in him shifts, releases, and his shoulders sag, leaving him looking as tired as Dean feels.

“So, how’s your day been?” Adam asks with a cynical brightness that tips Dean off straight away.

“Well, I can tell you being the invisible man would suck without any hot, nakedness to spy on in the meantime. It’s a lot of one-sided conversation and as much as I like the sound of my own voice, the solo act gets kind of tired.” Dean nods at Castiel after Adam blinks at him in bewilderment. “Cas can’t see me.”

“Oh.” Adam looks at the seated angel as Gabriel lowers to a crouch on his haunches and his expression melts into understanding. _“Oh.”_

“It gets old,” Dean says after it becomes clear Adam’s not going to share his enlightenment. “How about you? You enjoying your day off?”

Dean watches all the emotion slowly drain from Adam’s face until his brother is staring ahead into the hedge, focus vacant as though he’s found a way to look right through it.

“Michael’s gone.”

“… What?”

Adam’s jaw tightens with anger and he draws his legs up, resting his wrists on his knees.

“ _Michael._ He’s gone.”

Uh-oh. Dean’s missed something. He steals another glance at Gabriel for clues, but the archangel is still murmuring in hushed conversation with his brother who is refusing to look him in the eye, and Dean’s not in Gabriel’s direct line of sight, so he doesn’t see Dean’s wide-eyed look begging an explanation.

“Gone, like….?”

“Gone like the goddamn wind,” Adam spits, glaring at him from the corner of his eye.

Dean wonders how Adam found out, but he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that his carefully laid and multiply reviewed plan fell to pieces around their feet the day Lucifer showed up on Adam’s doorstep. Dean is going to kill that bastard.

But at the moment, he’s a guy who can sympathise with wanting to change the subject and, more importantly, he’s a big brother. However, Adam continues before Dean can give him the luxury.

“Cas knew,” Adam says, quiet and even. “Your boyfriend knew what Michael did to me. He even helped me forget.”

Adam shakes his head and Dean swallows the sudden dryness in his throat as his stomach drops with the déjà vu of the moment he knows is coming, the moment he’s shared with Sammy so many times, those moments that have broken and driven them apart, before they finally went their separate ways across the country.

He didn’t want that for them and Adam.

“Dean… did you know?” Adam’s voice is so quiet and hopeful.

Dean’s chest twists with guilt. He shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry, kid. But you really were happy. I wanted to let you have that, without the baggage.”

Dean’s braced for it, but when Adam doesn’t respond, he forces himself to meet his brother’s eye and the sad betrayal in Adam’s face guts him.

“… Baggage? Baggage is a dysfunctional family and an ex who won’t stop calling. These are angels and demons, and Dan Brown’s got nothing on us.”

“I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone, Adam. Maybe Sam’s right. Maybe our blood won’t let us keep our heads in the sand. But I wanted to give you the chance, because nobody chooses this. This life chooses us.”

“… It chose you?”

“Our Mom died in a house fire. Pinned to the ceiling by a yellow-eyed demon. We ganked him in the end, but there was always something bigger and uglier waiting behind the next door.”

Adam shakes his head and his shoulders slouch, a tiredness Dean can relate to.

“I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Her name was Mary.” Dean’s not sure why he says it, but Adam looks up from the grass and Dean sees his opening.

“Tell me about her?”

“… Not only could she make a mean sandwich, but she kicked ass, too,” Dean agrees, smiling at the memory of his mother’s bruising knuckles on his cheek. She’d been so small, sweet, and fierce; Dean was proud to be her son.

Adam bounces his knee a few times before he speaks.

“On the days she beat me home, my Mom would sometimes bake a lasagne, extra cheese. She’d bake enough to last most of the week because she worked shifts and she didn’t want things like cooking, laundry, or cleaning to interrupt my studies. Things _she_ should be doing for me as my mom, she said. But she wasn’t home on most days, or she’d already be asleep by the time I got there. When I was younger I’d go to the hospital and sit in the cafeteria, the waiting room, or just find excuses to hang around the children’s ward and help out when she was working in paeds. I really missed having someone to come home to. Her name was Kate.”

“I know,” Dean says softly, continuing when Adam doesn’t respond, gaze still faraway. “Your Mom broke her back to give you a better chance, Adam,” Dean says, because he recognises the ‘absent parent with all the best intentions’ syndrome. It was hard to stomach while you were going through it, but coming out the other end… it was lucky that Sam and Dean could appreciate what their Dad had sacrificed for them.

It didn’t cancel the fact John’s absence had still left a hurt in both his sons that had stayed with them in his absence.

“Castiel took me to see her the first night I woke up,” Adam says and Dean sits up straight, because, hello, that’s news to him. Adam still looks too deep within his own memory to notice Dean’s sudden interest.

“You went to Heaven?”

Adam blinks at him and then rolls his eyes in a delayed reaction.

“Oh, we weren’t supposed to tell you; I forgot. She said to give everyone a chance. I think she knew.”

“Yeah. We knew,” Dean quietly admits and Adam’s mouth quirks, doesn’t quite make it into a smile and he frowns abruptly, swallowing a lump Dean suspects he finds in his throat.

“I heard that, too.”

“Adam… hey….” Dean turns to his brother. “If there was anything we could have done... _anything…_ we would have pulled you out in a second. We used up all our favours, kid.”

Adam searches his face and Dean doesn’t know if his brother believes him, but he had tried. He had limited options, but he’d tried… _maybe not hard enough_ , a small voice of guilt adds from within him.

“What’s going on between you and Sam?” Adam asks, quietly.

“What do you mean?” Dean frowns, because he and Sam were as good as –

“When he talks about you it’s… sort of… sad.” Adam shrugs and he has no idea how tightly his simple words close around Dean’s heart.

Cas was right: Sam always came first. Dean doesn’t want to feel guilty about that, but he doesn’t know how to operate any differently, either. Glancing at his youngest brother from the corner of his eye, he sees Adam isn’t watching him. Adam is giving him his space, but he’s still there and patient and Dean doesn’t want Sam to be the only one that matters.

After all, Sam had made it pretty clear that Dean wasn’t the only person in his life anymore.

Dean swallows the impulse to hook an arm around Adam’s neck, swing him in for a hug, let Adam flail in the imbalance of it and maybe even swear at Dean for the lack of warning.

“Since we were kids, it was just me, Sam and Dad. Then it was me and Sam.”

Adam snorts under his breath, but something in his soft, thin smile makes Dean think that he understands.

“You and Sam against the world.”

“There used to be a lot of other hunters out there. We used to fight against things like angels. The first time I met Cas, I tried to kill him.”

“Couldn’t have bought him a drink first?”

Dean smirks and pushes his legs out in front of him, enjoying the stretch of relief in his thighs.

“Cas was on our side and Gabriel turned for us, but Lucifer… and Michael.” Dean looks at Adam significantly, Adam’s features hardening at the archangel’s name. “They’re dicks. They tried to end the world and a lot of people died for it. So, imagine how quickly I would have called the wedding planner when my baby brother told me he was moving across country with them and putting up the white picket fence.”

Adam looks away, his shoulders drawing in close.

“I can understand why you hate us.”

Dean stares at him.

“Adam, I didn’t mean you—“

“Yeah, me,” Adam interrupts him, “Me and Sam. We both disappointed you. I don’t blame you, I don’t get it either. I don’t know who Michael is. He acts like sugar and spice, but people tell me things… and I remember things…. I don’t know.”

Dean looks at him carefully at the mention that Adam remembered, but his eyes are clear. He just looks tired and forlorn, grinding his knuckles into the grass at his ankles.

“There was a second part to the apocalypse,” Dean tells him.

“Yeah, Gabriel told me. It was almost civil war.”

“Things happen in war.”

He hopes Adam understands because he doesn’t know how better to describe the logic-bending situations they got themselves into, the lines that were drawn, crossed, and the people he never would have expected to end up standing at his shoulder.

How adversity bred new friends and brought his family so close to breaking too soon after that last test of the threshold, Dean knew once they came out the other end that they could survive anything.

How war meant realising he had new allies when the peace came, though it meant giving up his brothers for the ceasefire.

“With us going our own ways… I don’t think it was about you, Dean. We weren’t deserting you. I know Sam was your only family, but then you got me, and Sam….”

“Sam got his own family,” Dean says, and he regrets that some bitterness leaks through even after all of this time. He thought he was at peace with this. He had the Impala and the road, he had Bobby, and his brothers were never more than a phone call away.

“Actually, I think your family just got bigger.”

Adam squirms under Dean’s heavy stare and Dean thinks he even shuffles a little distance away.

“I mean, after today, I’m not so sure. I might have taken us down one, but—“

“It’s funny,” Dean cuts him off for his own benefit because he pities the self-deprecating look that steals across Adam’s expression, though it’s pushed underneath a second later, “I knew that. A part of me knew that, but… you… God. I think you could actually be right about something, Adam. I knew but I didn’t _get it_ … until now. You know what I mean?”

Adam blinks at him.

“You know it wasn’t about you, right?”

Dean shoves his brother lightly against his shoulder.

“Sam misses you,” Adam says. “I think a lot of people have.”

“I never gave you credit for subtlety, kid.”

“Subtlety’s for virtuous folk.”

Dean’s chest tightens around the pitted knot already twisted in his chest through the old wound of their divide with Adam. Adam’s brought all of their history with him into this labyrinth and Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. For the first time since he found Castiel wandering the green lanes in search of him, Dean thinks maybe it was a grace the angel couldn’t see him.

“Your boyfriend was doing me a favour, I get it,” Adam says. “He really can’t see you?”

“Might just be that he doesn’t want to see me.” Dean throws down the stalks of grass he’d been tearing between his hands and slouches back against the hedge wall.

Adam follows his example, hands resting on his stomach as he leans back beside his brother.

“Why’s that?”

Dean laughs under his breath.

“Obviously, you don’t remember _everything_. Probably for the best.”

Adam doesn’t respond at first and the silence stretches long enough that Dean suspects Adam’s trying to remember despite his brother’s comment.

“What happened, man?” Adam’s asks quietly. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but… is there anything I can _do_?”

“Ha. Give me a time machine?”

Adam’s frown is dubious.

“You think you’d do things differently?”

Dean considers it. He flicks the scuffed ankles of his jeans and compares it with the memory of his brothers’ laundry. He knows those two actually took the time once every while to sit down with a needle and thread to make the repairs when time gave them the luxury. No, that’s not right. They _made_ time.

“No,” Dean eventually says. “I did what I had to with the information I had.”

“So, you don’t have any regrets?” The doubt in Adam’s voice annoys him.

He shakes his head without hesitation, mouth pulling into a scowl with the effort.

“Nope. Regrets get you killed. Just learn from your mistakes and hit the road again.”

“And did you? Learn, I mean?”

Castiel and Gabriel are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder when Dean looks and Castiel’s expression has fallen the closest to tears that Dean has seen in a long time. His heart clenches seeing his family in pain.

No, not family… but….

“Dean. If you’ve got something to say, man.” Adam sighs. “What’s it gonna take? It’s not like he could hear you right now.”

Dean won’t lie: it’s not as though he’s just been searching for the courage to say those three words that chick flicks are made of. Those three words aren’t enough to clear the slate of what he and Cas have been through, to give them _both_ the guts to look this thing in the eye. They’re not that simple.

“I think I could do it,” Dean mutters, not caring if Adam can hear him or not, but he clears his throat, raises his voice. “Did you know he pulled me out of Hell when I traded my soul to save Sam? He said God had commanded it, but he’s the one who told me _I_ was _worth_ saving. That idiot had faith in me. I think he came to regret it, but... I sort of wish he’d have that faith in me again.”

Adam takes a moment before responding. Dean hears him shifting against the hedge and feels it readjust behind him.

“You think you could do it?” Adam asks, taking up Dean’s words.

Dean is too busy circling his palm on his knee, focused on the strain in the side-seam, to notice when Gabriel’s attention slides over to them, his arm wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders.

“… Yeah. I would. Maybe not before, but now – I’d put him first.”

“Think you could tell _him_ that?”

“Cas wouldn’t believe me. We’ve seen enough of –“ Dean is shaking his head, but Adam cuts him off.

“Don’t keep this sort of thing to yourself, man. Trust me. Secrets….”

“‘Specially with this family.” Dean snorts a laugh under his breath, acknowledging it.

“You’re worth it, Dean.”

Dean frowns at his brother, finally meeting his eye again, and Adam shrugs, not backing down.

“Kid, you don’t even know me.”

“Hey, don’t make me say it again. I’m a pretty good judge of character – angels being the obvious exception.”

Oh, man. Dean had almost forgotten.

“You know, I offered him his name,” Adam says, “I actually thought he’d take it and go, but he just… stood there… and the look on his face…..”

“Adam – I’m sorry—“

Adam shuts his eyes, shaking his head, and Dean knows that look. He backs down. If it’s still too early for Adam to talk about that yet, Dean won’t push him, and he understands why. Adam turns away from the hand Dean means to squeeze his shoulder, but it still stings.

“Just do me a favour: take the shot, because if it works out, I could really stand to see someone come home happy today.” The smile Adam throws at him doesn’t hold for even a second and Dean sighs. He could never refuse his brothers when they looked at him like that.

Thinking about his situation the way Adam framed it… if he’s doing it for someone else, it makes it a little easier. His stomach still churns with nerves at the thought, but… this is Cas.

It’s Cas. He deserves the benefit of Dean’s doubt and Dean just hopes the angel will show him the same courtesy. And again he reminds himself: it’s Cas, the angel had never given him less than everything that he could offer.

Dean’s exhale is shaky, but he manages a stiff nod for his youngest brother.

“All right.”

-*-

Sam doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there watching the galaxy spiral and he doesn’t know if he imagines the low chord of its hum in his bones. There’s no sound in space and his boots are still planted firmly in the garden, the stone bench still cool and sharp beneath his fingers, and he doesn’t know how long Lucifer has been at his side, but when he watches a comet soar past, cold and bright, Sam follows its trail and finds Lucifer there, burnt light glimmering in his eyes.

Lucifer watches the comet fade into the distance of the black and Sam watches him.

Sam’s fingers sink through the short hair behind Lucifer’s ear and he’s smiling when Lucifer meets his eye.

“This place is amazing,” Sam says and his voice is hushed, but Lucifer’s pale, blue eyes don’t reflect the reverence or peace murmuring through every cell in his body.

“It’s based on the path to Eden.” Lucifer looks at the galaxy again and Sam misses the pulse from its core. “But there’s no garden waiting for us at the other side. There’s no exit.”

Lucifer leans forward in his seat and Sam’s fingers slip from his hair, falling to his neck.

“What is it?” Sam asks, sensing the heaviness in the angel and his fingers close around his shoulder.

“You turned the corner and I lost sight of you,” Lucifer says.

Sam squeezes his shoulder, accepting the apology because it’s not as though he had been keeping the closest eye on Lucifer, either. He’d been so busy searching for a gap in the leaves, a hint, or even a doorknob because Sam had come to learn that Gabriel liked hiding things in the open.

“But look at this place, it’s….”

“It’s beautiful.” Lucifer smiles at him and Sam wonders what’s weighing on his mind that the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know.”

There’s something the angel isn’t telling him and he knows Lucifer can sense his doubt, he knows and it frustrates him that the angel just sits there staring into the galaxy without acknowledging it at all.

Sam summons the nerve to ask him one more time, tucking the hair behind his ear, he sits up in his seat. Lucifer doesn’t react, as though something within that false vacuum of space has drawn a part of the angel away.

Lucifer is still and silent, Sam’s mouth opens, but he realises he doesn’t know what he means to say, and that’s when Gabriel rounds the corner into this alcove of the labyrinth.

Gabriel’s muttering to himself under his breath and his hands are fisted at sides, brushing the hem of his jacket. Sam recognises the long, exasperated expression on his face the instant those gold eyes flicker up to his.

“What did they do this time?” Sam asks, shifting closer to Lucifer to clear space on the bench for Gabriel.

Gabriel shakes his head angrily and something trembles and sparks in the swirl of stars before them.

“They’re never going to get it. They won’t do it. There’s nothing else I can do and _your brother—“_

“Come on, this is Dean you’re talking about. You know him. Were you trying to set them up again? You forgot how well that went the last time Adam tried?” Sam squeezes his shoulder, rubs the space between Gabriel’s shoulder blades the way Sam knows will calm him, where Sam knows he’ll shiver and melt if Sam presses the heel of his palm in such a way, and he doesn’t notice Lucifer watching them over his shoulder.

“Castiel isn’t a fool,” Lucifer says.

“… What does that mean?” Sam twists around with a frown and Lucifer’s face is nonchalant as he shrugs a shoulder.

“They’ve loved each other longer than any of us. They’ve had more opportunities to build and break trust. Dean isn’t the easiest person to love.” Lucifer’s look turns serious when Sam’s frown deepens, he doesn’t back down. “Dean doesn’t make it easy.”

“And Cas is a walk in the park?” Sam bites back before really thinking about it because, yes, Lucifer might be right, but his instinct is still to leap in front of Dean against anyone, even these two.

“Guys,” Gabriel sighs and he’s shaking his head, hands rested on his thighs, when they turn back to him. “Let’s not do this now.”

“Then when?” Lucifer prompts without missing a beat and there’s annoyance in the thready curl of his words, but Gabriel glares at him.

“Let’s not do this.”

“How bad was it?” Sam nudges with his elbow and Gabriel cocks an eyebrow at the stars.

“Well, not the stuff of singing telegrams. Castiel might not want to see me for a while.”

“Why do you do this? Why don’t you just leave them?” Lucifer asks, looking between them.

“Lucifer, they’re family! We just want them to be happy,” Gabriel almost snaps and points at him accusingly, and Sam’s ears ring because it’s been so long since Gabriel called his brother by his full name. “Don’t even think about calling me arrogant because I know what you did.”

Sam stiffens, caught between the two angels and the dark cloud gathering over them, but he remembers that moment Lucifer hugged his side, overly casual before they dropped into the labyrinth, and he thinks again how unfair it is that Lucifer doesn’t give them the decency of a straight answer when they’re incapable of hiding anything from him.

“You know… I’m afraid to ask because you said you’d never lie to me.” Sam means to be angrier, accusing, and he doesn’t know where the sad, hoarse note in his voice comes from. Lucifer’s face melts into surprise and Sam shakes his head, pleading. “Please don’t make me ask.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Sam,” Lucifer insists and Sam deflates, shoulders hunching.

 _“Lucifer.”_

“… I told Adam the truth.”

Sam’s eyes slide shut, he shakes his head, his chest bounces with a short laugh, and he balls his fist on his thigh.

“Sam—“ Lucifer stops when Sam’s hand curls over his knee.

“You _always_ do this,” Sam breathes and he isn’t surprised by the careful frown in Lucifer’s face when he looks up, like the angel still needs it to be explained to him. “This is why I asked you to stay behind, I _knew_ you’d try to enlighten everyone. It might be your name, but it’s not your _job_. You don’t care about consequences! People get hurt.”

Lucifer bristles and Sam is sorry for the flash of pain inflicted by his words, but Lucifer never learns. He refuses to learn.

“I don’t see how this is different from Gabriel’s intervention? He’s hurt people, he hasn’t brought anyone together today.”

Sam looks back at Gabriel’s scowl and the stubbornness there just makes him feel tired. He feels the cap of Lucifer’s knee through the denim and Gabriel is still there against his arm, but Sam stares ahead into the silent pocket of space in front of him and he can’t remember that peace he’d found. Gabriel gave him this, somehow he knew what Sam needed, but there’s something he needs more than a beautiful spectre to admire.

He can’t even remember the last time he saw Lucifer and Gabriel initiate a touch that led to something more without his lead. They were the ones who drew him in at the beginning with their security, their strength that came from their uncompromising (and involuntary) honesty, the trust, and the want that smouldered between them. When did they get to this place?

“You’re right. You two have got to stop doing this.” Sam shakes his head, pulling his hands into his lap. “ _We_ have to stop doing this. ”

The silence that follows his directive makes Sam hope the angels will actually listen to him this time, that they’ll stop playing matchmaker, trickster, light bringer, and _think_ before they acted because this –

“This,” Lucifer murmurs and he’s staring at Gabriel when Sam looks at him. Lucifer leans on the word with more weight than Sam understands. “This?”

All the emotion has been carefully wiped from Gabriel’s face.

“He’s calling us stupid Cupids. Maybe you don’t think we’ve helped today –“

“Michael and Adam separated,” Lucifer says and Gabriel’s eyes narrow like his patience is being tried and it’s rare to see that battle so close to the surface.

“And I know Dean and Cas still walked away from each other—“

“They say these things come in threes.” Lucifer’s words seem to shrug, murmured and easy, and it’s that exaggerated casual air again that sets off the alarms in Sam’s head.

Gabriel’s also stopped and Sam doesn’t need any mystical bond to tell he’s shocked as well.

“What – what _things_?” Sam completely fails to articulate and Lucifer looks him straight in the eye, steady and serious, and the indifference there makes Sam feel like he’s been shoved with a hand around his throat.

“This.”

“Lucifer.” Gabriel sounds like he’s rolling his eyes, sharp and impatient, “Stop it.”

“Gabriel,” Lucifer counters with a coldness that Sam hasn’t heard or believed for so long, it rocks him realising he had forgotten that Lucifer was this as well: powerful, predatory, a prince. “You didn’t just ask me to stay behind. You didn’t even think of me last night when you fell together, and you were happy.”

Sam’s mind spins trying to remember: the dinner, drinking, and then Gabriel had fed him cake, licking the crumbs from Sam’s lips as he rode him into the mattress, and Lucifer… Lucifer –

Sam’s stomach clenches with guilt. Oh God.

“Stop it,” Gabriel grinds the words out. “You’re making something out of nothing and you’re not going to martyr yourself for a stupid trinity of symmetry!”

“No, I’m not,” Lucifer agrees lightly and he threads his fingers through the short hair at Sam’s nape, apparently ignorant to Sam’s growing horror. “It’s not the first time this happened. I’m giving you a way out that doesn’t need any excuses. I won’t pursue the apocalypse. I wouldn’t haunt any of you. I can be respectful.”

Sam answers automatically, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Sam, take your own advice: consider it carefully before you speak,” Lucifer says.

 _“No.”_ Sam grits his teeth and pulls Lucifer’s hand to his thigh, tangling their fingers together. He clings to the relief that Lucifer grips him back, but it doesn’t wipe the patronising smile of _pity_ from the angel’s face. “You don’t just get to dump this on us and talk like what I think or feel is _less_ , or – or wrong—“

He hears Gabriel’s sigh before his hand winds over theirs, warm and familiar, and how long had it been since they did something so simple like this?

“Lucifer—“ Gabriel starts, but that’s as far as he gets, Lucifer silences him with a single look.

“And when did you start calling me 'Lucifer' again? Did you even realise?”

Gabriel falls quiet, Lucifer pulls his hand back, and the labyrinth dissolves around them.

-*-

Bobby can’t remember the last time he had a morning so good.

Nobody's ever forced him to sit down with such views of green valleys as this with a bottomless cup o’ the best joe Bobby’s never had in his long and eventful life. He can’t remember the last time he read for pleasure and he actually feels a little guilty about it, like there’s some other case losing out while he’s wiling away his time on this book of fiction.

In the beginning, his fingers twitch around the cover, he rests an ankle on his knee and watches that back door waiting for one of the boys to come out, but nothing changes. The birds sing, there are insects buzzing in the grass, and by the time the warm sun’s climbed to hang overhead, there’s a comfortable breeze tickling along Bobby’s neck in the shade of this pear tree where Gabriel set him up.

He’s almost halfway through the book by this R.R. Martin fella the first time Balthazar and Castiel appear to him, reality peeling back like old, dried wallpaper and Dean’s peering out over their shoulders.

Oh, so that’s what Gabriel had been talking about.

After Balthazar walked out, Bobby had passed about three more chapters, and then there was a snap of power and Michael stalked past him without a word.

The angel’s expression was so dark, it worried him.

“Mike?” Bobby looks back the way the angel had come, but nobody was following. “You by yourself? Where are the other idjits at your--?”

Michael had turned so fast, Bobby thought the angel was going to strike him. He spills his steaming coffee, in the grass and thankfully not on himself, but Michael had just glowered at him, body vibrating with tension.

Bobby startles at the hand Michael presses to his chest. He stiffens with shock at the breathless wind that pushes through, removing the tightness from his lungs, he gasps and, for the first time in weeks, the sound doesn’t rattle with the tickle of a wet cough. Michael straightens and Bobby sucks in a deep, clear breath of astonishment.

“Thought we talked about you laying your hands on people, Mike,” he cracks, but the angel just stares back at him, expression closed.

“Don’t let yourself go so long without treatment again, Bobby,” Michael says, voice surprisingly absent of its usual mocking lilt when he and Bobby would have this familiar exchange. “You’re not as young as you used to be. They’ll need you.”

Bobby had given enough speeches in his time to recognise a strangled goodbye when it came.

“You’re leaving?” Is still all he manages to force out through his shock.

Michael’s mask fractures just for a second and Bobby regrets that he left his walking cane in the house to hook the angel in, make him sit and explain as he was confusingly wont to do when Bobby asked him to.

Finally, Michael just nods and it’s his only farewell before he disappears from the shade of Bobby’s pear tree.

What had just happened?

Bobby hazards returning to his book because Gabriel had made it perfectly clear it was extremely important Bobby didn’t move from this spot until Gabriel came to relieve him personally. Bobby was his guard or something and when everyone was finished their team-building exercise or whatever hippie-loving crusade Gabriel had set them on, they’d make themselves known.

Although both angels who’d emerged so far looked pretty grim and when Dean’s shout rang out over the orchard, the expression on Castiel’s face was no exception.

“You said it first, Cas! Don’t make me take it back!” Dean’s voice thundered from down the end of the orchard, growing nearer.

Castiel stops when he sees Bobby sitting there in his chair, hunched and awkwardly trying (and failing) to shrink out of view.

“Bobby.” Castiel looks worn and exhausted, and he jumps when Dean barks his name again. He glances back the way he’s come with the wary air of someone being hunted and Bobby follows his gaze just in time to see Dean round the line of trees into view.

“Cas! C’mon, man, what’s with the hard to get act? Would you hold up for one freaking minute--?”

“Bobby,” Castiel says instead, looking back to the older hunter and he’s trembling, but his voice is firm. “I’m sorry you had to see this. Will you keep him from… anything stupid?”

Bobby frowns at the angel and his growing anxiety at Dean’s rapid approach.

“From—what did he –?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel barely gets the words out and then he’s gone.

Dean swings at nothing, barely a beat behind, and Bobby gets an earful of his friend’s frustration cursed at the sky after the angel who’s long since flown further than Dean’s words will reach him. Bobby looks up at the clouds when Dean rips off a fruit from Bobby’s tree and it hurls it high at nothing. Bobby notices Adam watching them from the upstairs window and he doesn’t remember seeing the boy come past. The next time he looks, Adam is gone.

“Can you believe that dick? He just—he just….” Dean laughs incredulously, bright and hysterical, and after the back door slams behind him, Bobby starts to really worry.

He looks around the surrounding trees and clears his throat.

“Sam?”

It feels like years, but it isn’t even five minutes later that he hears their voices.

“Gabe, don’t!”

“I called you a coward!” Gabriel’s voice rings loud and angry, and Bobby twists around in his seat just in time to see Lucifer shove Gabriel against a thick trunk with a hand around his throat.

Sam leaps between them, pushing a hand against their chests, and he may be larger, but neither of the angels break their hostile glare.

“Hey, I said cut it out! Both of you!”

Lucifer’s fingers curl tight around Gabriel’s neck and Sam shouts the devil’s name, finally drawing his attention.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” Bobby snaps, pushing to his feet, and grips the back of the seat to keep steady.

They turn to look at him as one. Something shifts in the angels like a current beneath the skin, the lines of the vessels softening again to something organic and alive, but when Gabriel and Lucifer look back at each other, Bobby thinks he sees a glimpse of what that final showdown would have been between those two in that false hotel of the _Elysian Fields._

Lucifer shakes his head, murmuring something too soft for Bobby’s ears, and then it’s just Sam, Gabriel, and Bobby standing beneath the orchard in Adam’s backyard.

Bobby’s knuckles whiten with his grip on his book. The silence reigns for all of a second before Sam and Gabriel’s voices start rising again, this time at each other, and Bobby realises his whole impression of the morning’s respite was an illusion.

It had only taken one morning for everyone in their camp to tear each other apart and, maybe, Gabriel had set him here for his own benefit. Maybe the angel had known this was coming, though by the sound of it, Bobby may have been giving him too much credit.

Quietly making his exit to the relative sanctuary of the house, Bobby wonders if there was something in the water that morning.

-*-

Adam dreams he’s sitting on the wooden fence of a large field. He recognises it from the photographs on the study wall.

They’ve been freshly harvested, large, round stacks of hay bundled in plastic and dotted around the plot under the grey sky. It’s warm, the air is still and calm.

Michael leans on the fence beside him, hands in the pockets of his jacket, gazing out at the field and the browner paddocks adjoining it, the rising hills in the distance and the border line of young pine.

“I asked you the same thing, you know,” Michael says without preamble, “When I broke out of the cage and I found you, all you wanted was for me to listen. _Five minutes,_ you’d say, _that’s all I need.”_

They watch a pair of ravens swoop over the field, chasing each other before settling on separate bundles of hay and cawing.

“Did you?” Adam asks.

“No. Not at first.”

“What changed?”

“Raphael tried to kill me and she almost succeeded. My most loyal Lieutenant; she was confused. But you vouched for me and Dean gave me his strength. I never thanked you for that.”

Adam shrugs, it doesn’t matter to him. They’re like stories from another book and it’s academic to him, but he remembers the cage. Those memories were his.

“That wasn’t me. It was somebody else.”

“It was plain in your face, but when I asked you why you loved me, you couldn’t give me a straight answer. I’ve been cruel to you, Adam. I’d done nothing to earn it.”

Adam runs a thumb across the grains in the log. This is an old, old fence, the face smoothed by the weather of many years.

“If there’s one thing I learned from my mom, it’s that you don’t earn love. Most times, you can’t choose it, either: you either do or you don’t. You can earn respect, though.”

“I respect you,” Michael says.

Adam looks down at the archangel from his perch and waits for him to go on. He’d like to hear this and, eventually, Michael sighs, looking out to the fields ahead.

“You’re principled, you’re determined. You’re _dutiful_ and do what you’re asked even when you don’t have all the information.”

Adam snorts, unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, look where that got me.”

Michael nods, seeming to acknowledge that Adam hasn’t enjoyed the smoothest journey.

“You’re brave. You were afraid in the green room, but you still fought me. You’re mortal, but you’ve stood up to each of my brothers at least once,” Michael says with a hint of pride. “However, you should probably stay out of Dean and Castiel’s business or they’ll never overcome their denial.”

Adam snickers under his breath, bouncing his knee.

“Are you saying their UST is _my_ fault?”

Michael is still looking out to the fields, but a small smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

“Not you alone, but you called them on it point blank to their faces. You probably thought that if it was aired in the open, there’d be no need to hide anymore.”

Adam rolls his eyes, him in his infinite wisdom full of great ideas, though he had to agree, that did sound like his logic.

“Castiel looked like he’d been stabbed,” Michael says, thoughtfully. “Dean looked like he wanted to bury you. They’ve been worse ever since.”

“Oh, man.” Adam winces.

“I wish you could have given me an answer back then. I might have had more to tell you.”

“But I’m not asking about _me_. I’m asking about _you_.”

“You make me normal,” Michael presses, insistent. “You make me want to _be_ normal. You’re my eyes to the detail of this world. You stand up to me without undermining me – most of the time.”

Adam smiles despite himself. He definitely didn’t have any problems with calling people on their bullshit and, between the stories and the few glimpses of Michael’s bossy side, the archangel seemed like the kind of guy who’d been full of it.

“But you and your brothers gave me back _my family_. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Adam studies the pattern of his jeans, his arms tucked against his sides. The temperature’s dropped.

“Well, Raphael’s still offside with most people. And I don’t know what’s going on with her and Balthazar, but it doesn’t look… happy,” Adam says.

“That’s a difficult concept for us. The way you think of ‘happy’ is hard to apply to our nature. Even after we learned, I don’t think she can consider the meaning of that word anymore. If you could have known her how she once was… you wouldn’t recognise her now.”

“It doesn’t sound like the best change.”

“I wasn’t there for her. But she did everything for me when it fell to the two of us.”

Adam glances to the field, then back to Michael.

“Is there anything to stop you helping her now?”

Finally, Michael slowly looks into Adam’s face. He looks puzzled, but at himself or Adam’s question, Adam had no idea.

“See, this is why I need you,” Michael says, softly. “I’ll speak to her.”

God, those stupid, bright brown eyes. Adam decides it doesn’t matter because this was a dream and he lets himself tuck a stray lock of hair behind Michael’s ear.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you today,” Adam murmurs, lingering at the hair over Michael’s ear before he takes his hand back. “You just. You lied to me… about _everything.”_

“That’s not true,” Michael says, “I _was_ worried.”

“Don’t _worry_.” Adam rolls his eyes, not sure what Michael’s referring to this time, but he thinks Michael would be good at fretting, that he would be the sort of guy with a compulsive need to fix everything. “Just don’t lie to me.”

Michael shakes his head, the line of his mouth tensing. He blows out a quiet, shuddering breath and his chin drops to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says and his entire body seems to fold over the fence. He shakes his head again and Adam catches the edge of his expression when it contorts in pain, before Michael pulls himself back under control. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you.”

Adam thinks he might actually mean it. He can’t reconcile this angel with the one he’s heard about, but they’re the same.

“Michael.”

The angel turns his way, but he doesn’t look Adam in the eye.

“Are you really in love with me?” Adam asks.

“… I feel like a fraud. I care about you.” Michael’s expression twists as though he doesn’t know what he’s saying and, honestly, neither does Adam.

Still, Adam thinks that the answer should have been a lot simpler, one way or another.

“You know, most times… I have no idea what’s going through that head of yours,” Adam muses. He jumps down from the fence and, side-by-side, Michael finally meets his eye with hesitation.

All Adam needs to know is that that wasn’t a ‘yes’.

It’s sort of a shame because if he’d never learned about their horrid past, he might have been in real danger of falling for this guy, and they might have been happy in ignorance.

“I’ll see you around, Michael.”

When Adam wakes up, there’s a new ache in his chest, blunt and hollow. He buries his head under the pillows and chases dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Raphael is not glad that Gabriel has come here. She doesn’t like that Gabriel asked to see Michael alone and Michael didn’t see fit to insist that she stay.

One look at Michael’s closed, downcast expression was enough to tell Raphael that she wasn’t part of this conversation and, with a suspicion what they would speak about, she doesn’t want to be.

Raphael has deferred to her most beloved brother and General on this subject of loving humans, but she doesn’t think Michael appreciates what an effort it has taken to accept the nature of such detestable things beyond her control.

She thinks of leaving them in peace to their discussion, but lingers at the gap in the door in the end. If they had wanted true privacy, they could have shut the door or drawn sigils to shield themselves from her sight.

Maybe they meant for her to witness their conversation. At first they begin with polite inquiries after one another’s health, but Michael is only half-paying attention, standing at the window of the third-story apartment Balthazar had put aside for them when he convinced Raphael it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to set-up a haven.

Raphael had never expected to use it or find a need to offer it to her family, but when Michael was on the brink of following Sam and Gabriel home, she’s glad she had an alternative to offer him.

And there are no words for how much it pleased her that Michael accepted.

There’s a tall mirror beside the foyer table opposite her vigil by the door to the lounge. Raphael studies her reflection, head tilted as she presses a hand down the sharp, crisp lines of her suit’s buttons.

Once, she had tolerated an argument with Balthazar of what wore most on the vessel: exercising her power to maintain the impeccable state or calling that same power to summon an infinite number of outfits as required. Balthazar had argued for the former, but Raphael won in the end; she thinks he just liked seeing her circulate through a wardrobe, which was so low on Raphael’s list of priorities it didn’t even rank.

Balthazar was incessantly preoccupied with the health of her vessel.

Raphael’s fingers curl at the hem of her jacket as she turns her ear to her brother’s conversation just in time to hear Gabriel’s next question.

“Do you know how to fall in love, Michael?” Gabriel asks after Michael fails to respond to his last three questions about living with Raphael, what he’s been eating, and then what he’s watching outside the window in the city street below.

This property is unlike what Michael had shared with Adam. He isn’t ignorant of the world, but Raphael thinks Michael has found a comfort in watching the lives of strangers pass below. Raphael has tried, and failed, to share an interest in this. They are like foam running downstream, but she knows Michael sees them with different eyes now. She thinks he sees Adam in each of them.

“Someone orders you to,” Michael answers, eventually, and his voice is hollow.

Is that what happened to Michael? Michael would only accept orders from one being and Raphael’s stomach plummets at the possible revelation that Michael had _seen_ , that Michael had spoken—

No. Michael would not have kept such a significant development from her. If God had returned, Raphael would have felt it. She would know.

“That's service; obedience. How do you fall in love with someone?”

Raphael wonders where Gabriel is leading with this line of questioning, but she can only see Gabriel’s arm on the chair. Not for the first time, a selfish shade of her grace snarls at being denied and made to stand outside, but she eventually gives up the attempt to see into the sitting room and leans back beside the doorframe, crossing her arms instead.

“You learn everything about that person. You... discover things you had in common.”

“So, you've studied the person. But then what?”

“You....” Michael sounds distant, distracted again, and Raphael imagines him leaning closer to the window, following the line of some movement on the pavement below.

“Yeah?” Gabriel prompts, bringing him back to the conversation.

“You concentrate on the things you like.”

“And what if there's nothing you like about them?” Gabriel asks him lightly and Michael sounds confused when he responds a moment later.

“You... look for traits about them you can respect?”

“Can love come from respect?”

“... I think so?”

“And how do you know once it's more than respect? How do you know?”

“When... you seek their respect, too.”

“After that?”

“When their respect matters. It matters that they appreciate you.”

“Oh, so to respect someone means to appreciate them.”

“For the reasons you respect them.”

“You're running in a circle.” Raphael can clearly picture Gabriel shaking his head, drawing Michael back.

“When their respect and appreciation of you is important to you.”

“To your happiness?”

“Yes.”

“So, love comes from respect and appreciation?”

“Yes.”

Quietly, Raphael is impressed, though not unsurprised by Gabriel. He was the Messenger, words were his war, and this is the most she has heard Michael speak in almost a week.

“All right… let me turn this around: how do you know when that person is in love with you? What measures would you take to validate them?”

“... Give them respect and appreciation?”

“What _is_ appreciation?”

It takes Michael a while to respond and Raphael is impressed there is no irritation in his voice when he does. Michael is more patient than she gives him credit for.

“Acknowledgment?”

Gabriel doesn’t miss a beat and, if not for the lightness that remains in his voice, this barrage would feel like an attack.

“Fair. What about gratitude? Your time, patience? Validation?”

“I suppose so.” Michael says it like a shrug.

“You ‘suppose’?”

“... I don't know.”

“Finally, we're getting somewhere.”

“We are?”

“For you, Michael, it could only sneak up. You wouldn't know it was there until it pounced, asked you to guess who and pulled its hands back from your eyes.”

“... Gabriel, all I know is that I hate this feeling. I hate the thought that he could be suffering, or upset.”

Finally they’ve broached the crux of the matter, but Raphael still feels sick hearing it uttered aloud. She hates speaking of Adam. Maybe that’s why she and Michael have had so little to say to each other over the past week.

“How much?”

“I hate that there’s nothing I can do. I can't stand the thought that I'm the cause. I would do anything-“

“Really?” Gabriel’s voice narrows like a scope and Michael’s reply is so quiet that Raphael almost doesn’t hear it.

“He would only have to ask.”

“What if he asks you to stay away and never come back?” Gabriel shoots without hesitation and Raphael feels herself frown, peering through the gap in the door, but Gabriel has moved from his chair and she can see neither of them.

“I – If that's... that's what he truly needed.”

“Don't confuse need and want. What if he just _wanted_ you to stay gone?”

“...”

The stunned silence lasts for less than a minute, Gabriel doesn’t let it linger.

“Michael?”

“What if he never forgives me?”

The defeat in Michael’s voice makes Raphael close her eyes and draw her breath slowly. She won’t accept that Michael was so easily defeated by a _boy._

“What if he wants your head on a platter?”

It takes Raphael’s last thread of restraint not to shove that door open and tear Gabriel’s wings from him. She tastes blood when she bites her tongue and her nails bite harshly into the skin of her palm, but she holds her station for Michael.

How _dare_ Gabriel come here and speak so brashly about that one thing that could hurt him?

Gabriel sighs and, just like that, the interrogation ends.

“I know Lucifer spoke to you. He meant well, Michael, he loves you. We _all_ do, but… sometimes… he is who he is. You know he’s an expert at unmaking a good thing.”

Michael doesn’t deign that obvious point with a response because they all still bear scars from the Fall and Gabriel continues.

“Anyone who’s seen you with Adam could tell you were _in_ love with him. But do you know how I can _assure_ you that you _love_ him, plain and simple?”

There’s a beat of silence and Raphael thinks Gabriel waits for Michael’s full attention, maybe for him to turn his back on that window and face his brother’s words.

“I looked into it,” Gabriel says, “Our Adam went back. Five years ago. He went back. But we’re still here; the kid _must_ be fighting for us. And you were right: that guy in that other house, he walks like him and talks like him; it’s still Adam. You’re here because he asked you to leave. You stayed away because you respected his wishes, even though I know what it’s doing to you. Nobody tells us what to do anymore. You’ve proven you understand what it means to put someone else’s happiness, safety, and wellbeing before your own.”

There’s a short, incredulous laugh that sounds just a little too bitter, and Gabriel pushes ahead.

“That’s how you love your friends and your family, but you’re also _in_ love with Adam because I’ve seen the way you look at him, it’s pretty obvious. It’s the same way Sam and Lucifer look at me, it’s the same darn thing Dean and Cas throw at each other when they don’t think the other is looking, and I know it’s hard, hey –“ Gabriel’s voice hushes and Raphael hears a shuffle of movement at the far side of the room.

“Don’t,” Michael warns, rough steel and dangerous.

“I know, okay? But you’re going to accept however this plays out. Because you love him.”

“… I hate you, Gabriel.” Michael’s voice is muffled, weary, and resigned.

“I love you, too, bro.” The light amusement and _love_ is back in Gabriel’s voice, Michael laughs softly, and Raphael has heard enough.

She pushes off from the wall and is gone.

-*-

The room is vast, marbled white, and cold.

Adam hears the sound of running water in the ground, the walls, and when he looks down at himself, he can see the refracted ripple of light on his clothes, but he can’t tell where the light is coming from.

Frost comes away on his fingertips when he touches the smooth wall, but it crackles like static when he rubs it away.

“You’ve come away from them,” a voice says and Adam turns to the source.

The light is coming from the streams themselves, four thin rivers running ahead of him and crossing at the foot of a throne where the light is drawn and disappears, consumed by the dark. Someone hunches in its seat. Their robes hang down the throne’s arms and dangle in the foot well, but the light shies away from their form and, behind that person, the room drops away to a sudden black void.

“I think it _will_ be you this time,” the person says.

The voice is a smooth baritone, Adam closes his eyes feeling it roll over his skin like a familiar melody from his childhood and it sinks through him, settling into his bones, falling dormant and still.

Adam’s breath mists in the air and there’s new frost on his clothes when he opens his eyes. It’s so cold here.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your book end and you are my exit, Adam Milligan. Stage left.”

“So, it was you, Sariel,” another voice answers, wind rushes past Adam’s face, and he catches the glimpse of Michel’s profile just as something occurs to him and he reaches for the angel, grasping only at air.

“Don’t cross the streams!” he shouts.

Michael stops a half second too late and a shudder of light rushes from the running water through the air and on into the darkness overhead where the marble walls fade to ink. He looks back at Adam in confusion and Adam finds himself breathing hard, a slow dread building in his stomach.

“This is a dream,” Michael tells him firmly.

“If it weren’t, you would be rejected from this place, but _in dreams_ even we are real, brother,” Sariel says, a shadow on the throne, and Michael’s expression goes dark, turning back to that apparition. “In dreams we can be transported to places otherwise beyond our reach. I have felt Gabriel this way, and even the scourge you were destined to destroy – Lucifer! Even he’s stood guard over me in this room thanks to the invention of _dreams_. So, you have my gratitude.”

“You should have slept on, Sariel,” Michael growls and a huge lance, silver with a wicked point, flashes into his hand.

“Maybe you’ll regret you didn’t end me at your first opportunity.”

The dark falls like a shroud, pooling at his feet, and sparks ignite when it hits the floor. The streams erupt into blue flames on all sides around them, throwing the walls into the veneer of a sickly, melting glacier. The man who stands at the foot of that throne is an older vessel, dark-skinned and bald, and the fires cast his face in a weak glow. He smirks from Michael to Adam and his dark eyes glitter with pleasure.

Something sweeps through the room ( _throne room_ , a quiet, stolen memory tells Adam), fanning the flames. Michael pushes his shoulders back and when Adam presses himself against that back wall, repelled by the sudden density in the air, he sees light glance and refract as though through a thousand prisms, but he shifts along the wall, and the spectre is gone.

“This throne doesn’t belong to angels, Sariel,” Michael says.

The other angel smiles down at Michael from the throne and when he spreads his own wings in answer, it’s like an inferno has opened at his back.

“It no longer belongs to anyone, Michael. I would have led them back to you, but… we all thought you would stay the course. If you wouldn’t take it, if Raphael, the most righteous of us, could be swayed, then why _not_ I?”

A wave of energy rips through the room and Adam turns his head away with a wince at the screaming crackle of flames and the thunder clap that ratchets around in his skull.

When he opens his eyes, he wonders how long Sam has been standing beside him.

His older brother stares between the angels with a frown of confusion like he’s also wondering what he’s doing there and what he’s witnessing.

“You will acknowledge me, brother,” Sariel seethes and another wave of power sends Adam to his knees, Sam staggers beside him, but Michael is still standing at the cross of streams, his lance brandished like he had deflected a blow, “and call me ‘Uriel’, as you once did.”

“You’re a ghost, Uriel.”

“No.” Sariel… Uriel shakes his head and his eyes flash. “I _Am_.”

A hand clamps down on Adam’s shoulder ( _go!_ ) and he’s shoved back. He falls through the wall, through space and borrowed memories and lands sitting upright in bed feeling more awake and alert than he has in days.

His heart is thundering in his chest and his clothes cling with perspiration to his skin. It’s still night, but he can barely hear the crickets outside.

He finds Dean on the couch downstairs and shakes him awake. Dean startles, swatting his shoulder with a backhand, already half-reaching for his gun beneath his pillow before he realises it’s Adam.

“What what?” Dean squints up through the haze of sleep and winces. “Adam, what?”

“—Sam, it’s Michael,” Adam is rushing, fingers clenched in Dean’s shoulder. “It’s Sar – no, Uriel and –“ He frowns, snarling in frustration trying to remember what happened before the stars of Heaven came down on his shoulders and he saw Sam’s hand coming away from his ear with blood.

Dean’s eyes have cleared and he looks at Adam with cold shock.

“Uriel? How’d you hear about him? He was _before_ you –“ Dean grabs his phone from the coffee table, punching the numbers quickly and he taps the heel of his boot impatiently when it starts ringing. “Come on, Sam…. Bobby, aim low, would you?”

Adam turns and finds Bobby stumbling up behind them in the dark looking half-asleep, a sawn-off shotgun in his hands.

“We being attacked?” Bobby squints an eye at them and his hair lies flat against his head, making him look much older in the pale, dim moonlight without his cap. “What’s all the stomping?”

“Where did you get that?” Adam points at the gun accusingly, but then Dean is talking on the phone.

“Yeah, Gabe, where’s Sam?” Dean braces his free hand on his knee and he looks up at Adam in surprise. “Yeah, he’s here. Why?” Dean frowns carefully and shifts the phone against his jaw, giving Adam his attention. “Did you just have a dream about some angels in Heaven?”

“That was Heaven?”

Dean turns back to his phone after a tense pause.

“That’s a ‘yes’ on the same brain, Houston.” Dean frowns and abruptly shakes his head, shading his eyes with a hand. “Wait wait wait… but you said you guys couldn’t go back to Heaven without your license! What? He’s not? Oh for – just pick us up.”

Dean hangs up, deliberately punching the button to end the call. He rises to his feet with a sigh and looks between his family’s expectant faces.

“Gabriel’s coming. Dress warm. Bobby, give him your gun.”

-*-

Raphael frowns when she opens the door to them.

Her expression isn’t pleased, but this _was_ Raphael, and she doesn’t look surprised, either. The apartment is dark behind her.

She looks between them, from Sam who is leaning with an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders, to Adam who is wincing with the fading tension of a headache behind Dean.

“Raphael.” Gabriel nods and rocks Sam against his side when he sways, steadied on the other side by Dean reaching out to grip his brother’s arm and looking into his face with concern.

Raphael’s look narrows at the display.

“I had a feeling I would see you soon.” She pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps aside.

“Why?” Gabriel asks as he and Dean lead Sam into the apartment.

Adam swipes the light switch when he walks past and nods at the dark-haired archangel in greeting.

“Hey.”

She just raises an eyebrow at him and shuts the door behind them, revealing a vicious, bloody sigil carved into the other side. Adam stares, feeling the colour drain from his face. That must have been one of the wards Gabriel talked about that kept them from jumping straight into the apartment itself.

“What’s wrong with your human?” Raphael asks, watching Dean hand his brother a glass of water.

“You need to come with me,” Gabriel tells her, glancing back at Sam until he’s sure the taller man is steady on his stool by the kitchen’s counter.

“Where?” Raphael frowns in suspicion. “What for?”

“We’re going to Heaven,” Gabriel says, and Raphael blinks in surprise.

“You? Why would _you_ … does this have anything to do with Michael?”

“What about Michael?” Gabriel asks.

“He won’t wake up.”

Gabriel disappears and Raphael evaporates from the open planned kitchen space a moment later, leaving the three brothers standing under the warm spotlights.

“Sammy, keep drinking that.” Dean is still trying to get Sam to look him in the eye and Adam remembers the way Sam’s head had snapped to the side in that dream like he’d been struck… but it was only a dream, right?

Adam drifts to Sam’s other side, hunched in his stool and sets his borrowed shotgun beside Dean’s on the counter.

“Sam, you all right, man? Sam?” Adam takes the glass when it lolls precariously in Sam’s hand and sets it aside on the counter behind him. “Wait a minute… look up.”

“I’m fine, guys,” Sam rasps, but he’s easy to manipulate and lets Adam tip his head back under the light when Dean supports him with a hand behind his shoulders.

“He’s concussed.” Adam is surprised and he exchanges a look with Dean, whose face has turned grim.

“I thought we were done with this,” Dean mutters under his breath. He’s dialling madly in his other hand, his mouth pulled in a deep scowl. He’s been trying to get in touch with Castiel since he got off the phone with Gabriel and has only grown more frustrated each time he went straight through to voice mail. “Why aren’t you _answering_?”

“If this is real and what we saw wasn’t just a dream, I think Cas is a little busy,” Sam says and his voice sounds watery.

Adam and Dean both reach out to catch him with hands on his chest and shoulder when he curls around a cough. Sam’s hand comes away from his lips with red spatter.

“… Damn it, Sammy.”

“I’m okay.” Sam tries to make his voice light, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans.

“Do you have Balthazar’s number?” Adam asks Dean and his brother rolls his eyes with frustration.

“He doesn’t carry a phone.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Adam shakes his head, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how we got there.”

“Do you guys see that light?” Sam squints at the far wall and its blank coat of white paint.

Dean shoves him lightly in the shoulder with a deep frown of annoyed concern.

“Stop hallucinating.”

Adam startles when Raphael appears beside him, her hand already wrapped around his arm.

“You need to come with me,” she says.

Adam baulks and breaks her authoritative glare, glancing at his oldest brother for help.

“Uh – what--?”

“Raphael,” Dean barks, and he’s still got his arms around Sam, but the archangel doesn’t even acknowledge him, “Tell us what’s going on.”

She doesn’t wait for Adam’s agreement and then he’s standing over a bed where Gabriel is sitting by Michael laid out on his side. By all appearances, Michael is asleep, but Raphael had said he couldn’t wake up and Adam remembers… he remembers the lance, light… and rivers.

Gabriel looks sternly at Raphael with the motion of their arrival.

“We can’t do it without Lucifer.”

“We can’t even attempt it half-complete,” Raphael releases Adam’s arm but fixes him with a sharp look instead, “My brother requires his name.”

Gabriel rises from the bed and Adam peers around him trying to get a better look at Michael.

“Raphael, we can’t—“

“I am not waiting for _Lucifer_!”

“Is he okay?” Adam asks, wary of speaking amongst these two, but Michael wasn’t moving or showing any reaction to their loud presence, and that couldn't be good. Adam glances at the two angels and steps around them when they don’t seem inclined to stop him, feeling the temperature of Michael’s forehead. His eyes widen in surprise. “He’s cold.”

Raphael seems to take that as ammunition.

“He can’t win against Sariel in that form.”

“It’s Uriel,” Gabriel says.

Raphael’s face is stunned when Adam looks back at her, wondering at the sudden quiet.

“It can’t be—“

“It’s _Uriel_ ,” Gabriel says again and Adam thinks that means something significant to Raphael, maybe to both of them, because there’s pain in Gabriel’s eyes and Raphael’s expression is slowly falling to devastation.

“He was _killed_.” Raphael shakes her head.

“He’s alive!” Gabriel insists and Adam swears he sees the angel’s eyes glimmer gold in the dim light of the bedroom. “I’m not the only angel who was resurrected, am I? What did you do?”

“I needed my brothers!” Raphael’s arms fall to her sides with hands fisted and Gabriel takes a step back with the force of her cry. “But Uriel is dead.”

Adam shrinks back to the bed’s edge and he glances down at Michael debating all for a moment before taking one of the angel's hands in his. It’s little comfort to him because Michael is cold and Adam remembers he’s supposed to be warm enough to run a fever. He rubs the angel’s hand between his two and watches Michael’s face to avoid the sight of Raphael and Gabriel because, honestly, they’re a little scary and he wouldn’t mind his own brothers’ company right now.

“—I needed fealty and soldiers with courage, so I summoned _my brothers_ and gave them the necessary arms.”

“I know Uriel and Sariel became your lieutenants. The twins: they were loyal to the cause. But you didn’t just give _him_ arms, Raphael -- there’s no way he should have been able to stand up to us the way he did.”

Adam glances down at Michael and squeezes his hand.

“Michael,” Adam murmurs under his breath and a quick glance confirms that neither Raphael nor Gabriel are paying him much attention, “Michael? If you’re stuck in that place because of me and Sam… I’m so sorry… but your brothers could use your help right now. Could you wake up?”

“What?” Gabriel prompts when Raphael mutters something spiteful under her breath.

“The martyrs, the crusaders, the saints. The righteous… I called and they answered,” Raphael's expression steels when Gabriel looks into her face, disbelieving, “It’s a deep well, Gabriel. I took none that didn’t offer themselves. If he consumed more than his share – I… I didn’t know….”

“Raphael….”

“It was _war_.”

“He became stronger than _any_ of us! His power was almost… almost like –”

Adam looks down when Michael’s hand twitches in his. Michael’s face is still and Adam doesn’t know if it’s the wan light of the streetlamps outside that’s giving him that pallor, but he looks weak. There’s no film of sweat on his brow or cheek, Adam leans down with a light touch and waits for a response. He glances back at Raphael who is drawing back, nails digging into her fine suit with the hand on her hip, and Gabriel with appeal in his voice because up there Heaven is shaking again and they’re saying it’s too soon, Heaven was rocked to its foundations when Raphael’s power well drilled too deep and her soldiers glutted themselves without check.

“If Heaven crumbles—“ Raphael raises a hand of warning at Gabriel who whirls away and glares at the high ceiling.

“Lucifer! Lucifer, we need you!”

“You should have kept your traitor on a tighter leash.”

“I really hope I’m not going to regret this.” Adam sighs as Gabriel continues shouting for Lucifer.

He doesn’t hear the door open or see Sam and Dean stagger into the room because he’s leaned into Michael’s side and he’s trying to remember how to form the sounds. He has fingers curled in Michael’s shoulder when he whispers the angel’s name in his ear and it feels like the summer sun baking stripped flesh when it swells inside of him, he gasps feeling something thin and tear, too slow to unfurl its bands from the rising tide in his throat, and then there are hands on his arms pulling him up.

He’s relieved when familiar gold eyes settle on him, but – no, it’s the wrong face, and he lolls in Gabriel’s arms, pulled against the angel’s shoulder.

“Like ripping off a band-aid,” he hears Gabriel say somewhere above him, Sam’s concerned face swims into his vision, and then Gabriel’s hand presses to Adam’s clavicle, “One, two—“

Adam never hears what comes next.

-*-

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—“ Gabriel rolls Adam up against his shoulder as he draws his hand away and something flares between his fingers, golden-white and misting like a comet’s trail.

Raphael pushes her hand to Adam’s chest, light blazing between palm and fabric, and Dean watches Gabriel mutter to the light in his fist before sinking it into Michael’s chest.

Michael’s face abruptly flushes with colour and Sam’s hand is on his shoulder when the angel’s chest rises with a deep breath before opening his eyes.

“He’s back.” Sam glances back at them and Dean doesn’t know where he should look because Adam isn’t opening his eyes, leaning like dead weight against Gabriel’s shoulder, unresponsive to whatever Raphael’s doing, and Sam’s voice is strained, but calming, then Michael groans in disorientation, pushing against the hand on his shoulder. “Michael. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Sam?” Michael’s voice is hoarse and confused, but then realisation colours his expression, he looks down at himself and sees them. In a moment, Michael’s sat up and he’s drawing Adam out of Gabriel’s arms as the light fades from Raphael’s hand, and Dean hears the angel murmur his brother’s name over and over with growing despair.

“What happened to him?” Dean asks, moving to hover at Sam’s side by the bed. He searches Adam’s lax expression as Michael holds him against his chest, pressing fingers to Adam’s pulse and his temple, threading through his hair and he bends to listen to Adam’s breathing.

“Michael,” Raphael stresses urgently, drawing her brother’s attention to her. Clarity returns to his expression, seeing her face, though he holds Adam closer. “Was it Uriel?”

Michael dismisses the simple explanation, shaking his head.

“Uriel. Sariel… somehow they’ve become the same.”

“They were twins,” Gabriel murmurs, as though it should explain what’s happening, but Michael’s expression is still stunned, “Two halves of a whole. And rare.”

“I’ve never seen this before,” Michael says, “He’s turning Heaven to an ash field. Dean.”

Dean takes Michael’s place on the bed, the angel rises reluctantly, and Dean feels that Adam’s pulse is slow, but it’s there. Adam is breathing, but the coma state honestly worries him.

Michael and Raphael are exchanging a heavy look, shoulder to shoulder. The room is tense and quiet, and eventually Raphael nods. Her sword slides from her sleeve into her palm and Michael looks deliberately at their remaining brother.

“Follow if you can,” Michael tells Gabriel, who nods grimly, “the throne room.”

“We’ve got him,” Dean says when Michael turns to him and the angel spares a final glance for Dean’s youngest brother before he looks at Raphael who draws her shoulders back.

The apartment trembles for a moment as thunder rolls in the skies outside, and Dean catches the shadow of wings before the two angels disappear.

“He’s safer this way,” Gabriel promises, pulling his hand back from Adam’s shoulder when Sam settles between the angel and his brother, the mattress leaning with the new weight.

Gabriel’s hand settles on Sam’s shoulder and Dean sees the tension clam him up before Sam looks into his face.

“Sam.” Gabriel breathes his name like an apology and he shakes his head like he doesn’t want to ask Sam any more than Sam wants to consider the request that’s about to come out of his mouth.

The air shifts like a hushed exhale, Dean’s hand tightens around Adam’s shoulder, and Sam’s mouth falls open in shock.

“So,” Lucifer cocks his head at Adam from where he stands at the foot of the bed, “He did it.”

“You made it.” Sam looks at the angel with a mixture of relief and sadness.

Lucifer looks tired. His expression is weary and hesitant, and he shakes his head slowly with hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

“Sam, I said I will _always—“_

Gabriel doesn’t let him finish, rising from the bed and crushing Lucifer’s mouth against his own with a sharp inhale of sound. Lucifer takes a moment to respond and Dean looks away when Lucifer wraps hands around Gabriel’s shoulder and waist, pulling him in close with relief like this was something he’d lost or thought he’d never have again.

Sam just watches them from the bed, probably going weak and misty-eyed, _the sap_ , Dean thinks.

“Don’t ever do that again.” Dean hears Gabriel warn and he thinks it safe to look back, though Gabriel and Lucifer are still wrapped in each other, almost nose to nose.

Lucifer searches Gabriel’s face and Gabriel kisses him again, lingering with relief. All the tension leaks out of Lucifer and he rests his forehead against his brother’s when they eventually part.

“They need us,” Gabriel murmurs, and Lucifer shuts his eyes, fingers curling into Gabriel’s jacket.

“I know.”

“I love you,” Gabriel says.

Lucifer’s mouth quirks in a ghost of a smile and he looks from Gabriel to Sam, then back again.

“I know.”

“It’ll be okay.” Gabriel draws Lucifer’s hands into his and Lucifer looks at their interlaced fingers, slowly clutching back.

“We’ll be fine,” Sam affirms, and the realisation of what’s about to happen hits Dean like a cold fist to the chest.

Dean swipes his brother’s shoulder and Sam looks back, no sign of surprise, he hadn’t forgotten that his brother was there. He braces Dean with a smile, nodding, before his brother’s even said a word.

“We’ll be okay.”

It almost ruins the effect when Gabriel hands Dean his shotgun, but he takes it, fingers heavy and clumsy, resting it against his knee.

Lucifer kneels at Sam’s feet and Gabriel pushes the hair back from Sam’s ears, searching his face. Sam leans in when Lucifer reaches for him and Dean feels a muted curl of envy at the kiss that burns between them because it’s not the desire, not even Sam’s palpable relief to have Lucifer against his skin again, but the clear trust between Sam and the devil _of all people_ , that’s hard to watch.

Dean tries to remember what it felt like when Castiel trusted him like that.

“I’ll make it quick,” Sam says and closes his eyes.

-*-

The ground is shaking when Michael and Raphael land outside the throne room.

The platform abruptly falls away beneath their feet and Michael throws a hand out to catch Raphael. Her fingers are tight around his arm as he pulls her to safety, staggering against a fall on the remaining cracked, white stone. They turn back to see the broken segment sink through the clouds into the murk of untrue space, before being consumed by the void between this Heaven and the paradise of mortals.

There are screams in the air, the ash of their brothers lifted on the wind, coating the back of Michael’s throat when he sucks in a breath of Heaven. It’s not even two years since he was last here, but at the pace of humans it has felt like an age, and for the reason he’s returned, it was always going to feel too soon.

They had hoped they would never have to return here.

There’s light spilling from the large gap to the throne room and their brothers are rushing to fill it, but the flare and sputter of grace rises above the rest, so many at once and already too few of them, and Michael knows they are being felled in there.

“Rachel! _Rachel!”_ Castiel’s shout of grief stirs Michael into action and Raphael comes to his shoulder.

Together, they fight their way inside against the oppressive wave of energy repelling them, she pushes the brothers she can reach back out the doors with a single sweep of her wings.

There are still a legion of angels between them and the throne, but Uriel confronts them all with a thousand blades from his wings and then a thousand more, and the fire of his grace consumes so many with the casual ebb of a wave lapping the shore.

Michael’s lance strikes through the chorus of death, a single pure note of glory for a beat in time as it whirls in his hands deflecting fire and ice and blades, and Raphael never stops moving beside him. She is beautiful and terrifying, arching in a whirlwind of blinding feathers and dual swords, and it’s been so long since Michael has witnessed her like this, since they have had to raise arms on the same side and to stave the very real threat of decimation. He almost laughs because he feels _alive_ and everything within him sings to remember he was created first for this.

They finally barrel through the torrential attack to the cross of what remains of their original binding spell at the four streams: the piece of Lucifer, Gabriel, Raphael and Michael they each left behind to stop Sariel ever rising again.

 _No, not Sariel… Uriel_ , Michael reminds himself and glances at Raphael, wondering, only for a moment, of her part in this and how that could be so.

Raphael hurls what more angels she can back through the yawn of those heavy doors, and Michael reaches out for a familiar trench coat, raising his lance against the next flood of wrath from that throne. Uriel’s power is tireless and sure.

Castiel whirls, eyes widening in surprise, when he sees who pulled him from that lethal tide. Michael holds his shoulder tightly, glad and proud that he is still whole, though Castiel’s vessel is streaked with ash and bloodied from the fall of his brothers.

A cry of warning rings out behind them, Castiel jerks, and they both look down at the sword that has sunk deep into his chest.

The blue is already fading from Castiel’s eyes when they climb to Michael’s face, but there is a wistful smile on his face when they find Raphael, trembling beside him with shock and rage.

“I think he learned that move from you,” Castiel tells her.

He sinks to his knees, grace rushing from between his fingers as he folds over the blade with a rush of breath that sounds like a name, and he is dead before he falls on his side.

Michael stares.

 _No._

Rage boils above the sinking devastation in his grace because he knows that for all Raphael’s effort, she couldn’t herd enough in her wings for the sheer numbers that had flown to stand against Uriel; thousands in the span of human minutes cancelled from existence like this lowly brother who became his closest ally on earth, and Uriel had known Castiel, too, perhaps better than the rest of them, and still….

Castiel’s eyes are empty, the ash of his wings thrown across Michael’s vessel.

 _That’s enough._

Uriel burns, bright and glorious, on that stolen throne above them and Michael thinks he can still see the smile of patient promise that Uriel believes he will grant Michael his time with the void, too.

Raphael rears back when Lucifer catches the sword inches from her face, and the entire throne room shudders with a groan under the force of Gabriel’s strike, his fist driving down into the stone at the cross of the four streams where Castiel’s vessel had sprawled.

Light flickers in the air, the shield wavering around the throne as Uriel watches the walls shake, just a tremor in concentration, and Michael leaps across the divide.

His lance melts through the devastating flare of Uriel’s grace, freezing jagged and misshapen when it penetrates that outer resistance. Uriel raises a hand in shock, fingers curling, and Michael winces as he’s pushed back. Michael twists, dredging the last of his strength to bear downwards and suddenly he feels another force drive in behind his weapon. He looks back into Lucifer’s face, grim and determined, and Michael feels the flinch of flesh vibrate through his weapon, the shock of grace like the death of stars on his skin, when they finally force Uriel back with a cry of rage, pinned at the shoulder to his throne of unblemished, white stone.

A gasp goes through the throne room, the foundations stilled from the relentless push of Uriel’s power, and the silence rings in Michael’s ears even as he and Lucifer tower over their brother, tense and shaking. The thick burn of spilled grace chokes his senses.

“Uriel,” Michael breathes, his jaw grinding at the effort to remain standing, “We remove you from this throne.”

Uriel pants, an angel once more, shaking and stunned as he collects himself. Lucifer pushes fingers against the wound in his vessel, eyes darkening with satisfaction when Uriel cries out, and Michael forgets to wonder how strange it is that Lucifer is at his side in Heaven once more, his _brother_ , restored, and it’s because this is as it should have been.

“Uriel,” Raphael says.

She appears at his side and Michael fastens his grip on his lance as she slides around him with hands on Uriel’s arms, her expression tight with grief.

“Why this, Uriel? _We had command._ ”

“But not glory, not _love_.” Uriel’s voice twists with pain, then he sees Gabriel over Raphael’s shoulder and Michael watches the anger still in him. “Sariel gave himself for me willingly.”

“Uriel.” Gabriel shakes his head, so much sadness in his voice. He pushes forward, brushing Raphael’s hand on his arm, and Uriel swallows thickly, anger receding.

“Angels need a subject of worship. I would have led them back to us, made every wraith, man, and angel fall at your knees. Perish the non-believers.”

“You would have destroyed us,” Raphael says with certainty, fingers curling in the collar of his jacket.

Uriel’s dark gaze flickers to Lucifer, and Michael watches carefully, feeling Uriel twitch around the lance in his shoulder.

“If not you, Morningstar, and not me, it will fall to another. If we have nothing to praise and fear, as angels we despair, and the humans – your humans… they need devotion. They need _gods_.”

“That way of thinking only leads down one road, Uriel, and, at the end, it’s dark and cold and you’re always alone,” Lucifer says.

“… It was you.” Gabriel’s voice is quiet with understanding. “You were the one who cursed Adam to run through time.”

“And your Sam,” Uriel smirks, “I didn’t bother with the eldest mud monkey because there was so little threat he would ever seek his bliss. Oh, Gabriel, if you could know how many times I’ve ripped those boys from you with such a simple spell and watched you suffer,” he laughs abruptly, pain gone for a moment in his dark amusement, “You thought your wards in wood and stone could shield you from my sight.”

“We could have been more,” Michael agrees, and feels the surprise ripple in the looks that turn on him, “Once. But then I remembered what I am. I choose my brothers.”

“You choose _mortality_?” Uriel spits, and Michael shakes his head.

“Life, Uriel.”

Michael thinks of Adam and his bright, incredulous laugh, throwing popcorn at him from the other end of the couch when Michael shared his deadpan observations about the book in his lap; Adam wrapping himself around Michael with a tired, grateful smile, his head sinking to Michael’s chest as he dropped his stethoscope on the bed because he was exhausted after a twelve hour night shift and Michael had made them dinner; how this one thing was entirely his, not because he was the perfect son and soldier who served beyond the rest, but because he learned to care and fight for something above his own glory, and accept the surprise that gift returned.

He thinks of Castiel with his ashes scattered beneath their feet and his essence flung to the void. He mourns that now the angel will never learn to find the kingdom of their Father on earth as it was in Heaven through the love and devotion to another being.

Michael thinks he might understand now what his Father had commanded them all that time ago.

“He knew one day we’d be without Him and He created us, He knew our nature best.” Michael looks into Uriel’s expression of doubt, fingers wringing around the lance in his shoulder. “I don’t think He wanted us to war or waste away. I think He wanted to give us a chance to live.”

The silence rings over the crowded throne, Uriel’s face is still clouded with confusion, his power thrumming beneath Lucifer’s hand again, and Gabriel touches Uriel’s face with regret.

“Maybe if you’d come with me, you would have understood. Time, patience, and a lot of every liquor open all kinds of doors.”

Uriel chuckles and it rumbles deep in his chest. He stares up at the void above their heads.

“I don’t pretend to understand.” The smile fades from Uriel’s eyes and he looks firmly at Michael with dark promise. “But I know that if you don’t finish this now, it will come again, and there won’t be enough of you to stand against me. My… General armed me too well.” Uriel breathes the memory fondly, but it’s tinged bitter with regret, and Michael catches the flash of the sting in Raphael’s face.

Michael exchanges a look with Lucifer and Gabriel above Raphael’s head because Uriel is right. They hadn’t wanted to destroy any more of their brothers and they were arrogant in their ability to bind him, but it had led to this… this casual annihilation, and they were all at fault.

“We loved you,” Raphael tells him and she has made the choice for them.

Uriel shakes his head even as he lifts his chin to let her fingers curl further around his throat.

“Not as much as I loved you.”

And perhaps, like Lucifer all over again, that unequal devotion had been the problem all along.

Gabriel’s hand covers Raphael’s over Uriel’s windpipe, Lucifer and Michael channel their grace through a touch on their brothers’ shoulders, and, with an exhale much like relief, Uriel slowly burns on the throne beneath them until he is cinders and an afterthought of ruin, released to the void.

The four of them hover around that empty throne, deep fractures in the walls of the room; rubble and broken bodies strewn everywhere.

Gabriel and Raphael’s hands are covered in ash. Raphael whips out of Gabriel’s grip when his fingers close around her wrist.

She flies before they can stop her and Michael wonders if Balthazar survived the fight because he can’t remember seeing the angel, but then Gabriel and Lucifer are looking to him and none of them try to take their rest in that throne.

Michael sighs and looks at Castiel’s body, his chest tightening.

“Come,” he says, “We must count the dead.”

-*-

Sam wakes with hands on his chest, warmth fading beneath his ribs. He opens his eyes and raises his head from the pillow with a gasp.

Raphael straightens from his side at the bed and the heat in Sam’s bones goes cold seeing the heaviness in Raphael’s motions. She avoids his eye, and he thinks the worst.

Adam is passed out to the world beside him on the bed and Sam sees the slumped figure of Dean in the corner, hands splayed by his knees, his head lolled against the wall, unconscious, like he was pushed there and told to stay down.

Sam spares a wary glance at the angel who’s already moving around the bed to Adam’s side, her expression grim and lips thinned in a scowl.

“Raphael,” he rasps and winces when he manages to push himself up on the bed, “Raphael, are you – are they –?”

Is she the only one who survived? He can’t bring himself to say it and Raphael is ignoring him, but there’s a tang in the air like soldered metal, burning cloth, and something else he doesn’t have a name for that makes the back of his throat itch and his eyes water, leaving his tongue feeling thick. Angel death wasn’t like demons and the recognisable fingerprint of sulfur they left behind; angels were from above the Earth somewhere between the clouds and the space of human understanding. When an angel died, they burned like the death of stars, wrenching and scattering across dimensions and, Sam thought, tearing something of those dimensions back to their final resting place.

But Sam smells the death of angels on Raphael and he thinks of the stratosphere, of dried sea beds and lightning storms exposed to space.

When Raphael leans over his brother, her fingers smudge ash in Adam’s clothes and he gasps, arching under the light of Raphael’s palm as his expression twists in pain.

“What--?” Sam startles, but Raphael doesn’t shift in the slightest at his push against her hand, the sharp set of her features only hardening, more determined, and Sam pushes harder against her, starting to panic. “What are you doing? Raphael, stop it!”

He hears Dean groan, weak and disoriented, he’s coming around slowly.

Sam’s body complains, muscles feeling tender and bruised, but he shoves against Raphael’s shoulder, and her sharp look throws him back against the headboard by mere force of her will.

The light fades from Raphael’s palms and Sam thinks she’s a little unsteady by the slow way she blinks, the long line of her back straight and seamless once more after she pulls herself up.

“Don’t ever say I never did anything for you,” Raphael growls, seething, and Sam feels like he’s back on his knees in a dark, rain-soaked motel parking lot and she’s demanding the key to Heaven’s armoury. He thinks for a moment that she’ll raise her hand, close the grip of her will around his throat, but then her vicious look cuts to Adam at his groan of confusion.

Adam blinks his eyes open and pushes up on his elbows, focusing blearily on the angel hovering over him.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” he slurs, groggy.

Something slides across the floorboards and then Dean is pushing himself up the wall, shotgun lolling in his hand, and he’s glaring very intently at the back of Raphael’s head, focusing on his target.

Sam sees what’s coming before Dean even raises his shotgun.

“You son of a –“

Raphael disappears, but Dean’s already squeezed the trigger and Sam shouts, realising the bullet’s new goal.

Michael blinks into existence in the space before Adam, catching the bullet in a blurred arc of motion with a crack of sound, then Gabriel is yanking the shotgun out of Dean’s hands, and Sam startles at the fingers that closes around his shoulder.

His relief at looking up into Lucifer’s familiar face is short-lived when he sees the angel’s expression. Sam pulls him to sit, cool against his thigh, and Lucifer’s face falls when Sam cups his jaw.

“What is it? Talk to me,” Sam urges after Lucifer just turns his face and his mouth presses to Sam’s palm, expression twisting in pain.

The quiet is tense. Michael crushes the last of the buckshot between his fingers, its ground remains falling like dust at his feet, and Sam feels the bed shift when Adam pulls himself to the edge, glancing in confusion between his brothers and his angel shield.

They all jump when Gabriel cracks Dean’s shotgun over his knee and hurls it through the window with a howl of rage. The glass shatters pathetically, showering the bedroom and balcony in iridescent shards; they scatter and still, glittering in the pale street light. An icy chill blows in, lapping the sheer curtains against Dean’s arm. Gabriel stalks to that balcony wall, his shoulders hunching as he leans his hands on the rail, and his head bows between his shoulders, tight and pained.

“… What the hell, Gabriel?” Dean finally asks, sounding breathless and stunned. “How… how did it go?”

Lucifer is clutching Sam’s hand back tightly when Michael glances back at Adam, searching his face, and that same heavy look is in Michael’s eyes. A frown flickers across his face, a curious thought. Michael’s gaze shifts to Sam and he seems to understand, but then that sobriety settles over his features again. The angel sets his jaw and he looks back to their brother who’s still standing in the corner, waiting expectantly for an explanation.

None of Michael’s brothers dare to watch and Michael starts slowly, his voice careful.

“Dean….”

-*-

Sam doesn’t think their Dad raised them to understand and graduate through the stages of grief. According to the psychiatrist, Kübler-Ross, there were five stages the standard person progressed through before they could accept a change as final as death, but that was predicated on the understanding that death was a final state.

Sam and Dean had probably shaken off death more times than any other people in history (Dean more times than Sam cared to remember thanks to Gabriel’s side venture of the never-ending Tuesdays), so they’d come to think of death differently. They had even met the Horseman himself.

If John Winchester led by example, then he’d raised his boys to deny, to isolate, to rage against the dying light, and then when they realised they could negotiate like any deal in the stock market, the whole principle of death changed for them. Sam and Dean had never really regressed to that shared understanding ordinary people found in confronting their own mortality, and as for acceptance?

They learned that Death was something that could be challenged, bargained, and even stoppered.

But that had been before the war.

At first, stunned silence rings through the bedroom when Michael tells them that Castiel is dead.

It’s not the first time Castiel’s died, so Sam understands his brother’s confusion when Dean frowns, suspicious and disbelieving.

“What?”

Michael holds his gaze and his voice is steady, like a dispassionate, factual report from the front line.

“Castiel is dead. He was killed at the front line defending our brothers. He fought well and valiantly, but – our focus slipped and—“

“Cas isn’t dead,” Dean interrupts with annoyance and they all look at him in surprise.

“Dean.” Sam shakes his head, but he knows this isn’t the time Dean’s going to see reason and he can’t blame him. He tries anyway. “Dean, man—“

“ _No_ , Sammy.” His brother cuts him off with a harsh look: _don’t you fucking dare._ “If Cas was dead, I’d know. I would _know._ ”

Unfortunately, it’s Adam who challenges him, soft and unthinking, because he doesn’t know Dean.

“How?”

“’Cause I would, all right, Adam?” Dean explodes, lip curling in disdain, and Adam actually shrinks back as Dean glares him down. “He dragged me out of _Hell_ , he’s been pawed at by demons and angels after he flipped off the institution, and he was even brought back after he made _you_ jelly, you stupid kid! He’s not just any angel and he’s _not_ dead.”

“He is dead,” Lucifer replies simply, quiet, still seated by Sam’s side, and Dean’s glower flashes to him.

“And what the hell were _you_ doing, huh?”

Gabriel’s in front of Dean before Sam’s even blinked and he shoves Dean back against the wall, knocking the air from his chest with a stunned grunt.

Gabriel’s expression is as dark as the look Dean regards him with, pinned by his shoulder to the wall, and they scowl at each other, challenging the other to break first.

“… Don’t make me hurt you, Dean,” Gabriel pleads, though it’s growled and unsteady, and Sam sees Dean flinch at the rawness in his voice.

“Show me his body.”

“No.” Gabriel shakes his head and Dean snarls, hackles rising for another fight.

“There’s nothing left,” Michael says, before Dean can fist his hands in Gabriel’s jacket, and his voice is flat.

Dean stares at Michael in shocked accusation.

“What – how’s that possible? Don’t brush me off like that—!”

“ _Dean_ ,” Gabriel stresses and it almost sounds like a keen as he shoves Dean once more for emphasis against that wall with hands fisted in his clothes. His face contorts into a wretched expression. “He’s gone.”

Dean is already shaking his head, anger brimming again.

“No—“

“He’s _gone_ , Dean!” Gabriel shouts and Sam bites the inside of his cheek, eyes stinging at the strangle in Gabriel’s throat, almost breaking off hoarsely.

Dean sweeps off the hands on his chest and Gabriel lets him, stepping back when Dean shoves past with a dark glare, throwing open the door. His boots echo heavily on the wooden steps before the apartment’s front door slams and Sam jumps, eyes shutting tightly, he shakes his head.

 _God, Dean,_ he thinks, _I’m so sorry._

-*-

His brothers are smart and they don’t follow him.

Dean lets his feet lead him to one of the darker streets in this city and he jumps the first car that looks like it wasn’t protected by five kinds of computer security systems.

He drives beyond the city limits and lets the miles burn past him until the building peaks disappear from his rear-view mirror, until the country grows wild and barren around him, he forgets the gnawing hunger in his stomach, and the hysterical ache is threatening to fill him up and split his chest apart, one thread of flesh at a time, because Cas was not dead.

Cas was _not_ dead.

But he remembers the quiet grief in Lucifer’s face, Michael’s guilt, and the angry hurt that flared in Gabriel’s eyes when he shoved Dean back against the wall.

Dean’s fingers curl and uncurl convulsively around the steering wheel and he has to pull the car over when his vision of the road starts to blur through the angry sting of tears. He almost rips the parking brake out of its place with the force of his strength and he scowls at the old Ford’s whine and sputter.

Stupid car. Stupid, weak-ass piece of crap, having the nerve to complain when his own baby never gave up on him. It hurts more than he can explain that he doesn’t have the familiar dark leather, steel, and smells of the Impala around him and he misses her so much in that moment, Dean feels his expression wrench with the painful beat in his chest, and he punches out at the steering wheel.

The tinny, old door slams behind him when he steps out and Dean glares at the faded brown paint of his ride, thinking he could have slammed that door even harder. He kicks at the tyres, then the tyre well, his boot leaves a satisfying dent when he packs his strength behind a well-aimed shot at the side door, but this stupid thing was built stronger than it looked, and Dean doesn’t even hear himself shouting and cursing it to hell.

He pulls his fist back through the shattered window and stares at his bloody knuckles.

The first sob escapes him, rubbing his rough palm over the weeping cuts, and he sinks to the dirt against the wrecked Ford’s side with his wrists on his folded knees.

Cas wasn’t dead. He _wasn’t_ dead because Dean still had so much to tell him and Cas hadn’t believed him when Dean cut his heart out and offered it to him, and Dean still had to convince him, he still had to… he had….

A cold wind blows through his jacket and Dean realises that sometime since he’s been staring at that old oak tree on the other side of the dirt road, the sun has sunk below the horizon. He can barely make out the grooves in the tree trunk anymore. He shivers, slowly recognising the drop in temperature and the fact that he has no idea where he is.

He kind of likes it that way.

The moon is high in the sky and his hunger burned like an old wound low in his stomach when Crowley answers his call at the crossroads.

The demon looks as unaffected as he always does, with his fine suit and a dark coat giving the illusion that he could feel or even cared about the chill of two a.m. He tilts his head at Dean, his hands in his pockets, and gives him a look like this was a long overdue conversation.

“Well. If there was ever a case of live and let learn, Dean, you are not it.”

“I’m touched you made the trip yourself,” Dean bites back, his voice gruff from the tightness still in his throat.

Crowley’s smile is genial and mocking.

“When I heard it was you, I had to make the exception. It’s good for business when the senior partners represent for our repeat customers. And I am the most senior of seniors.” His smile flashes white and chesire, just for a moment. “It’s people like you – though there are so few – that make me consider developing a loyalty program. Most humans don’t get the chance to trade with us more than _once_.” Crowley threads the word with interest and a threat, the smile leaving his eyes.

Dean glowers and his patience for the demon’s posturing runs short with the fresh threat of the sting behind his eyes.

“Cas is dead.” He feels light-headed saying it aloud.

The demon raises his chin in understanding.

“Ah, your pet bird. My, my. That’s a big gesture you’re asking of me, Dean.”

“What’ll it take?”

Crowley shrugs a shoulder, a smooth and easy motion, and regards the low line of trees by the crossroads.

“Well, here we have an interesting case not unlike double jeopardy, my friend. You see, souls weren’t _made_ to be recycled through the economy by the same patron, so you’re an impotent dealer. Sorry.”

“… Wait, wait – are you freaking serious? You _won’t_ deal with me?”

Crowley’s eyes narrow in delighted interest.

“How much do you want your bird back?”

Dean’s teeth grind together. In the back of his mind, he hears Sam calling him back from the precipice and, after all these years, there’s even Adam’s angry accusation demanding to know what the hell Dean thought he was doing, but Dean realises now he’s been standing here for a long time just waiting for Cas to take his hand. He’s not backing out now just because the moron went and got himself killed for all of humanity again.

“You just tell me what you need.”

“Oh, it’s not what I _need_ , Dean, but what I _want_ – I’d _enjoy_ a wager.”

“Name your terms,” Dean growls at the way Crowley puffs up with pleasure.

“Lucifer – and his head – on my platter. Kill the kingpin, I keep Hell, and you get your angel back.”

Dean blinks at Crowley in surprise.

“Lucifer doesn’t even… he hasn’t had anything to do with you guys since he—“

“Dean, you’re naïve if you think turning domestic changes our nature. I can carve up a Sunday roast while it’s still screaming on the spit, but I have my ambitions, too. And your brother-in-law still has quite the power base of loyal followers that upset a tickle in my throat. So. Cut the head off the snake… and I’ll give you what you want.”

Dean stares at the hand the demon offers him.

“Deal or no deal?”


	9. Chapter 9

Michael is staring out the window, forehead almost pressed to the cold glass pane, when Adam finds him in the living room.

The angel’s eyes flicker up, seeing him in the reflection. Adam tilts his head in silent question, Michael’s gaze drifts back down to the street below, and Adam feels a confusing sting of disappointment in his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, skimming fingertips down the arm of the bucket chair beside him.

The living room feels empty with its few furnishings, but he didn’t think Raphael was the sort of angel who would linger in one space for long – like it would expose her to too much risk of being found and stuck with a sword in the back – and somehow the whole set-up felt modest for her proud and haughty personality. Maybe that was just Adam’s humanity trying to subscribe human models to a creature unlike them at all. It’s with a blunt sense of stupidity that he realises he would always be a little off the mark when it came to angels.

He would probably never completely understand them.

“… Michael?”

He digs fingers into the chair’s arm because Michael has never ignored him before and he doesn’t know how to act in this situation with the angel’s back turned on him. He doesn’t know what’s going through the angel’s mind (but he can guess) and he doesn’t know if he’s wanted here, either, but he has to do something. He remembers how quickly Michael had always placed himself at Adam’s side as though he understood before Adam ever would that Adam needed him there.

Adam is not a mind reader, but that’s not something you do if you don’t want to in the first place.

Michael is so still when Adam comes to his side, it’s eerie. With hands in his pockets, Adam glances from Michael’s face to the parked cars on the street below and he thinks Michael’s staring at the burnt orange Mustang with the black racing stripe, but the look under his pinched frown is unfocused and vacant.

Adam’s chest twists and he has to stop himself from taking Michael’s arm. He hasn’t forgotten the last time he spoke to this guy -- he’d been shouting at him to get out -- and he isn't sure that he’s welcome.

He feels himself frown and sits back against the windowsill instead, peering into Michael’s face, and tries to meet his eyes. Michael’s mind is still faraway. Adam bunches his hands in his jacket against his stomach.

“Is there anything… can I do anything? Michael?”

Dean’s been missing for a day. Gabriel, Lucifer and Sam have locked themselves upstairs and the one time Gabriel surfaced for air, the darkness in his face made the pit of Adam’s stomach sink deeper.

They’re all falling apart around him.

Adam bites the inside of his cheek and tries to swallow down his nerves.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you guys. You just… you need to tell me what to do. Tell me what’s going on.”

There isn’t a flicker of reaction in Michael’s expression and Adam can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He deflates in exasperation and starts pushing himself off from the windowsill when Michael finally speaks and his voice is a faint, toneless whisper.

“He’s dead.”

Adam’s chest tightens hearing that word from his mouth, ‘dead’. Michael utters it like a disease, something that summons revulsion and heartbreak all at once, and Adam shakes his head. It’s beyond him.

“I’m sorry.”

“… Our numbers are down to a third. Because I broke the seal.”

Michael’s mouth twists and he’s not fast enough to hide the wince Adam recognises from too many times forcing back his own tears every time he thought of his mother and the life he lost overnight.

“Come on,” Adam says, voice plaintive, “You didn’t know.”

His hand closes over Michael’s shoulder and he feels the tremor go through the angel, melting the stiff line of his back. Adam risks stepping closer after Michael rests his forehead against the glass, his eyes sliding shut, and the small wince is the only sign of his pain.

It’s enough to draw Adam’s arm across Michael's back and squeeze the shoulder still in his hold.

“You didn’t know… you just thought he was hitch-hiking into my dreams. You didn’t know, okay?”

“I know what it means to be an endangered species now,” Michael says, breath fogging against the glass.

Adam stares at Michael’s profile, stunned. Michael sighs under his hands and Adam tries to imagine what he’s going through. He tries to imagine being able to count the last human to the exact number, knowing where each and every one of them stood at a point in time because they were so few; knowing their names, their faces, and the exact way they would wear their pain.

He doesn’t think _I’m sorry_ is going to cut it again, but nothing he could say would probably be enough right now.

“You still have us,” Adam eventually says, whatever that counts for, “We’re still here.”

 _You’ve still got me_ , he almost says, but it catches in his throat. It feels like someone else’s words, too raw and dangerous to let slip that easily. He has to be careful. Michael was fragile and Adam can’t trust that he knows how Michael will react. He’s not sure he could handle any more surprises the angel might still have to share.

Michael finally looks back at him, expression pensive. He turns, glancing at the ceiling, and Adam wonders if he’s thinking of their brothers who were still up there, isolated with their grief.

Michael’s gold eyes look dark and disarmingly ordinary in the shadows. He folds his arms loosely over his chest and Adam’s hands fall to his sides.

“She healed you,” Michael says, scanning Adam from head to toe, “I didn’t know she had it in her.”

“Raphael?”

Michael’s expression is still far away with his thoughts and Adam wonders what’s going on behind his eyes as they search his face.

“You won’t need my name anymore. And Uriel’s spell is broken.”

“So....” Adam feels himself frown as he connects the dots.

“You don’t need my protection,” Michael clarifies smoothly and sits back against the sill where Adam had settled only moments before.

Adam’s frown deepens, the instinct in his gut warning him against something in the calm of Michael’s expression.

“Michael, I’m not – I’m not here because anyone’s forcing me to be. Sam and Dean are my family. You guys are –“

Michael’s eyes narrow gently, curious.

“What?” he challenges softly, but it still makes Adam blanch.

Like family? Like friends? Part of him is still afraid of the angels and what they’re capable of, but the larger part is confused because he’s only seen their concern, their humour, their kindness, even from Lucifer, in his warped, twisted way.

The cage feels like a bad dream and the only thing he knows is that he doesn’t like seeing them hurt.

But he can’t form any of these words and Michael smiles, wryly, his arms dropping to his sides.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, and leaves Adam standing by the window.

-*-

Sam rouses from his light sleep with the cool hand that slides around his hip, long fingers stroking absent lines in the dip of his pelvis.

He twists in the sheets that someone had pulled straight and neat over his chest and rolls into Lucifer who was already lying along his back. Lucifer’s head is propped up on his hand, fingers curled into his short, blond hair. He almost smiles when Sam squints up at him and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes, then pushes his dark hair from his forehead.

“What time is it?” Sam groans, covering his eyes with a hand.

“It’s still dark.” Lucifer leans down and kisses his brow. His hand moves down Sam’s thigh and Sam sighs, resting his forehead on Lucifer’s bicep.

“Where’s Gabe?”

“There.”

Sam follows Lucifer’s pointed nod and sees Gabriel leaning on the rail of the balcony. He had slipped back into a pair of pants before he stepped outside and Sam doesn’t know why he bothered because modesty wasn’t Gabriel’s first or best virtue, but maybe he was sparing a thought for Raphael’s neighbours. Sam dismisses the thought immediately, but….

Raphael with neighbours. Weird.

Gabriel is looking up and down the street, hands clenched tightly on the rail. The street lights have painted the skin of his shoulders pale and grey and the hair at his ears lifts with a gentle breeze. Sam sees the tight concentration in his frown when his head turns sharply at the blare of a car horn.

“Tell him it’s over. We’re safe here.” Sam sighs, head falling back against the pillows.

There’s no response from Lucifer and Sam shifts back, looking up into his face. Lucifer’s eyes are on Gabriel’s back, expression distant and inscrutable. Sam frowns and nudges him in the chest. He does it again, a little more insistently, when it fails to tear Lucifer’s attention away the first time.

“It’s over,” Sam insists.

Lucifer’s gaze flickers down to him and Sam remembers when this used to scare him, he remembers the first time he rolled over and found Lucifer in his bed after he’d heard Jess’s voice only moments before. Lucifer’s attention is no less intense than it ever was, challenging Sam’s air like a physical weight on his chest, but it’s different now. It’s thrilling and reassuring at the same time, and Sam may be tired because none of them have left this bedroom in the last day unless absolutely necessary, but interested warmth still stirs low in his gut when Lucifer shifts his weight onto his elbow and pushes patterns through Sam’s hair on the pillow.

“Let him do this.” _He’s mourning_. “We have to learn again. We can’t feel you anymore.”

Sam’s hand falls out of the way to the mattress as Lucifer lowers himself, kisses his shoulder and the anti-possession tattoo over his heart. Lucifer leans into him, a familiar, trusted weight that Sam wraps his arm around when Lucifer curls one of Sam’s legs between his.

He stopped being afraid when Lucifer walked away from them.

“How about you?” Sam asks, fingers sifting through short, blond hair.

Lucifer buries his face against Sam’s neck in response and Sam sighs as Lucifer breathes him in, skimming kisses along his skin.

Lucifer’s kiss abruptly peels back and he sucks Sam’s skin between his teeth, but it’s not his first bruise of the night, or even of the last twenty-four hours, and Sam can only imagine what a patchwork he looks like of purpled skin and scratches; long, thin and angry red. Every part of him is singing with some sort of ache, sharp and acute, or dull and low, and a quiet part of him just wants to sleep for a month.

They wanted to heal him, and they tried, but Sam knows how much strength they’ve already lost and he said ‘no’. The war taught them all how dangerous it was to use their power when their grace was exhausted.

When the room emptied to all but the three of them, Lucifer was the one who pushed Sam down to the bed first and kissed him into the pillows as Sam helped shove their clothes aside.

Gabriel had stood by the bed with a troubled expression on his face, and his hands loose at his sides, as though he didn’t know what he was watching or what to do. It made Sam concerned, but he struggled to focus under the slow, deliberate stretch of Lucifer’s fingers, and then the way he’d cut Sam’s questions off with kisses like he was drowning and Sam had the only air.

Lucifer had always been tactile and he touched like he was starved, but he was careful and reverent and his rare hesitation could bring Sam to his knees. Lucifer could worship and beg permission at the same time with only the wet press and pull of his mouth, his hands, and the delicious cold of his weight, if Sam and Gabriel were lucky. After spending what could have been thousands of years in icy solitary confinement, Sam thinks his patience is staggering.

But after they confronted Uriel, Lucifer’s patience had worn through. Gabriel had watched them with a detached interest when Sam’s fingers wrapped around the bar of the head board and Lucifer thrust in between his thighs. Sam could feel Lucifer’s pain with every press of his fingers, the grinding roll of his hips as he tried to bury himself deeper, and Sam was gasping, almost breathless, when Gabriel finally laid down beside them. Gabriel hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket, propped up on his elbow and watching Sam writhe through his pleasure.

The blankness in Gabriel’s expression had scared him when Sam finally fought to open his eyes and saw the other archangel there. Gabriel looked down with a detached observation at the hand Sam fisted in his dark shirt. His grip settled warm and firm on Sam’s arm, a familiar contrast with Lucifer, who stubbornly refused to heat up, and his gaze traveled down Sam’s body, shining with sweat as he rocked and strained beneath the push of Lucifer into him.

Sam groaned, vision almost going black when Lucifer pulled Sam’s hips higher in his lap, sharpening the angle of his thrust, and Gabriel’s hand had caught Sam’s knee, drawing his thighs wider apart.

Lucifer was already watching Gabriel when his brother looked into his face, expression dark, but Lucifer seemed to understand.

 _“Go harder,”_ Gabriel said, and the two angels spent the next three hours taking Sam apart.

Sam had flashbacks to what he remembered of the time Sariel had ripped their names from him. Castiel had left him in the care of these two before joining with Raphael and Balthazar to get those names back.

Sam’s body remembered with a shivering rush of fire while trapped between Lucifer and Gabriel, who leaned Sam back against his chest with hands under Sam’s knees spread wide as Lucifer drove into him hard. Each snap of his hips shoved them both against the cold steel of the head board, as though Lucifer was trying to fuck Gabriel through Sam, and Sam’s hands twisted in the sheets, boneless and moaning, head tipped back on Gabriel’s shoulder. Lucifer and Gabriel kissed with a passion that bordered on violent, turning something over in his chest, and some brief and malformed thought streaked through his mind just before his orgasm wrenched it away from him, something along the lines of bliss and how goddamn beautiful those two were together, but then Sam was being rearranged between them and his disappointment that Lucifer and Gabriel had pulled apart didn’t last when Gabriel slid around to his front, pulling his jacket off and he fixed Sam with that dark, hungry look.

 _“My turn, Sammy.”_ Gabriel smirked and Sam was relieved by the familiar expression. He’d fallen in love with that smile. Gabriel’s gaze fell to half-mast as Lucifer mouthed the muscles of his back where the memory of wings left them sensitive and Sam saw Lucifer’s hand slide between Gabriel’s legs.

 _“I could sit this one out.”_ Sam was enthralled watching them move together between his thighs, Gabriel straining back to catch Lucifer’s mouth in a kiss as Lucifer pushed into him with a groan of relief. Lucifer trailed wet, biting kisses from Gabriel’s shoulders, to his neck, and his earlobe before he found Gabriel’s mouth again. Sam stroked hands up the former trickster’s thighs, feeling them tremble as the angels rocked above him.

 _“You could also never walk again,”_ Gabriel threatened, voice hitching with a wince of pleasure when Lucifer did something with his hips that folded Gabriel in half over Sam’s chest.

 _“You’re losing this one_ ,” Sam said, leaning up to kiss his bruised and swollen lips.

Gabriel braced himself with hands on Sam’s hips and glared at him like he was about to counter, but then his fingers dug into Sam’s pelvis and the involuntary moan Lucifer wrenched from him was absolutely filthy. Lucifer smirked behind him, exchanging a knowing look with Sam that smouldered renewed interest in the pit of his stomach, and Gabriel hanged his head with a whine.

 _“I hate you two,”_ Gabriel said.

 _“I love you more,”_ Lucifer vowed and dragged that amazing noise out of Gabriel again, making Sam’s mouth water.

Sam stared between them and he was so out of his mind in love, he didn’t hesitate to agree when Gabriel muttered his plan for payback into Sam’s mouth and they flipped on Lucifer, ignoring the ice Lucifer sharded along their skin in shock, before they pinned and drove into him between them.

It was a long night that drew into a long morning and, by afternoon, Sam was sure he’d dozed at least a few minutes while Lucifer and Gabriel lay beside him, kissing and enjoying each other without the frantic edge that broke somewhere around dawn. At times like that, he was especially grateful there were three of them because angels didn’t need sleep, food or air, though he really, really did. Sam didn’t know how Adam handled Michael on his own, but that probably wasn’t a problem those two were having right now, and Michael was something else completely.

Sam stepped out for a shower when the sun was finally setting. He handled himself gingerly, the hot water sluiced over his abused skin and flesh, but he didn’t have any fresh clothes here and it was almost nine o’clock in the evening when he stumbled out of the en suite naked to where there were clean sheets on the bed and Lucifer and Gabriel sat against the head board, side-by-side with limbs comfortably tangled as they murmured in hushed conversation.

Sam’s stomach had starting to growl viciously halfway through his shower to remind him he hadn’t eaten in over a day. He paused when he saw the serious look Lucifer and Gabriel shared and pushed his hunger down when their discussion clipped short, noticing he had joined them again.

 _“I’ll get us something to eat,”_ Gabriel had said and disappeared before Sam could ask what he’d missed and the look Lucifer regarded him with was inscrutable.

Sam mentally sighed because Lucifer was near impossible to interrogate and, thankfully, Gabriel returned a moment later with a steaming bag of gourmet burgers with salad, fries and milkshakes.

 _“I took some to your brother, too,”_ Gabriel's brow pinched in a disapproving frown, _“I don’t think he or Michael remembered to eat.”_

 _“Are they—?”_ Lucifer paused with Gabriel’s milkshake halfway to his lips. He didn’t enjoy eating, but he did like depriving Gabriel of what he adored, only to make it up for it later more than double. Sam would never admit it aloud, but he found it too endearing to discourage Lucifer.

Gabriel threw Lucifer a look that answered the question Sam had also been thinking.

_“No. But they’re around.”_

_“What have they been doing?”_ Sam wondered aloud, incredulous, because… they’d been up here for more than a day.

Gabriel rolled his eyes with a shrug and slurped a sip from the milkshake right out of Lucifer’s hand.

_“They took a note from Dean’s book: zip.”_

Sam’s heart jolted at the mention of his brother. Oh, no. He’d been up here all day with these angels and he hadn’t even thought of…. He found the edge of the bed and numbly sat down, guilt sinking like a stone in his chest.

The food sat forgotten in his lap and he felt a cool hand curl around his arm.

 _“Sam.”_ Lucifer’s look was firm, he wasn’t the sort of guy who tried to brace people with smiles and Sam was so reassured the angel doesn’t fake that for him. _“We reached out, but when Dean wants to be found, he’ll find us. We’ll stay until he comes back. Keep your phone charged if we need to move.”_

Sam didn’t know why they would need to move, but there had been no whisper of Raphael, either, and he had no idea what was going on outside the four walls of what used to be Michael’s guest room.

He should really go downstairs and check on Adam.

 _“Please eat something first,”_ Lucifer coaxed him and Sam nodded along, eventually unwrapping his burger, but afterwards, they had distracted him _again_ , and now Gabriel’s standing vigil on the balcony in the dark and Lucifer is being predictably quiet and stubborn.

“I’m going to see how Adam’s doing.” Sam reaches for his jeans on the floor when Lucifer leans back to let him rise.

“Sam,” Lucifer says quietly and Sam pauses with his new shirt halfway down his chest, conjured up by Gabriel when Sam had pointed out the shredded state of his current one after dinner. Lucifer’s thumb brushes Sam’s lower lip, healing the split from when he’d bitten down somewhere between _can’t take any more_ and _don’t stop._

“What?” Sam asks, frowning gently.

“I’m glad you’re all right.”

Sam tries to repress the smile that tugs at his mouth and he glances at his shirt’s hem over his belt.

“… I’m glad you came back,” he says, even though he and Gabriel had spent the last day showing Lucifer how much they had missed him. Sam kisses him anyway and enjoys the way Lucifer’s eyes slide shut, how he tastes and smells familiar now: sharp, clean and fresh like the morning chill that Sam learned to associate with comfort, safety, and _home._

It’s not until after Sam’s shut the bedroom door behind him that he realises how right Lucifer is: he’s more than all right. He’s teetering on the edge of real happiness for the first time in years. The guilt strikes him so hard he has to shut his eyes and rest his forehead against the cool wood of the door.

He’s standing at the end of a long, dark hallway, thinking of his brothers, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He starts with flipping on the light switch.

He finds Adam downstairs sitting under the halo of the kitchen island, his legs folded underneath him on the marble counter top. Sam is actually a little surprised that Adam is still here.

Adam is going through the contents of someone’s cell phone and Sam wonders where he got those ear phones.

Sam sets his hand on the counter and Adam looks up, pulls the ear phones out, leaking loud electronic bass as he rests them on his knee.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“Are you all right?” Adam looks him over, cautiously, and Sam spares a thought for how things might have sounded from down here before Adam found something to plug his ears with. He hopes one of the angels put down a wall of silence, but he pushes the thought aside before it can heat his cheeks. Besides, Adam didn’t look embarrassed.

“Yeah, I’m okay. You?”

“I’m okay.” Adam nods, shrugging it off and Sam glances at the phone.

“… You heard from Dean?”

Adam’s shoulders sag and he looks down at the phone, its interface still glowing in his hand.

“No. You? Oh – stupid question.”

The laugh escapes Sam before he can stop it and when Adam meets his gaze, his blue eyes are also dancing with amusement. Adam shakes his head, laughing with him, and Sam relaxes, leaning his side against the counter top.

“Whose phone is that?” Sam asks.

Adam flashes the phone’s front at him, as though the picture of the green field beyond the tall fence of wooden logs is supposed to mean something to him. It was taken in low light, Sam’s guessing dawn, with the sun just peering over a row of pines in the distance.

“Michael’s. He left it behind,” Adam points at the picture, “We’ve been here before. That’s the field from the photos in my study. I mean… in that house.”

“… It’s still your house, Adam,” Sam says, taking the phone for a closer look. “Oh yeah, you’re right. Gabriel took the ones that hung on your wall. It was right after Michael convinced Raphael and Cas to –“

To lead Heaven together. It was the day of their ceasefire and nobody ever thought it would last as long as it did. That was the funny thing about the persistence of family.

Adam’s expression is sombre when Sam hands him back the phone.

“Are they okay?” he asks, quietly.

Sam studies the chrome faucet over the polished sink on the far wall. Everything in this apartment was clean, spotless, and untouched. It felt like a display home, not somewhere ordinary people lived and breathed and made memories. There are a lot of memories that were going to hurt for all of them for a long time.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits, though he manages a smile for his brother, “But they’re talking. I’ll take that.”

“Bobby’s been keeping me company... well, he texts,” Adam glances down at the phone again, “He took the news hard. I’m not sure, but I think that’s where Michael went.”

Sam frowns.

“You’re not sure?”

“Nobody’s really been talking to me,” Adam’s mouth twists into a falsely bright smile, “Don’t think Michael even wants to look at me right now.”

“Huh. Well, you did smash his heart open and melt the pieces – in front of Lucifer,” Sam smiles at the deadpanned look Adam gives him, “I know where you’re coming from, but if Dean were here, he’d tell you to cut to the chase and just serve his own balls up to him on a silver platter next time. Adam, this kind of trust doesn’t come easy. Don’t beat yourself up. You just made a mistake.”

Adam blinks at him in surprise and frowns.

“Did I?”

-*-

“If we do this, it could change everything. We could undo all of this,” Gabriel says.

Michael watches his brother’s hands wring around the balcony’s rail, arms locked straight, and his shoulders hunch as he wrestles with the decision.

“He saved my life, I owe it to him. You don’t need to join me—“

“Oh, plug it,” Gabriel snaps, turning around and leaning back on the rail with a sigh. He rubs his forehead in frustration. “Of course I’d help – _if_ I let you do this.”

Michael looks through the open balcony doors to where Lucifer is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What about you?”

Lucifer raises himself from leaning his elbows on his knees. His fingers tap a rhythm on the worn denim of his thighs and he looks at Michael thoughtfully.

“Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?”

“I owe him.”

“We could lose Sam. You could lose Adam,” Gabriel says.

Michael bites down the first response that he’s already lost Adam. Lucifer would give him that droll, piercing look when he was unimpressed and point out that Adam was just downstairs, but Michael isn’t in the mood for his antics.

“We could also save plenty of lives.” Lucifer looks at Michael meaningfully and Michael nods, because he had considered that. Michael owes their fallen kin much more than he can give them.

“We swore we wouldn’t interfere anymore. Who knows how much damage Uriel already did,” Gabriel says.

Michael watches the silent conversation pass between his brothers. It’s not the sort he’s privy to because, of all the voices that he can once again hear whispering from the Host in their mourning, Gabriel and Lucifer are not using that connection.

“I won’t do this unless you agree,” Michael eventually says and they look at him in surprise, “I know it’s not only my life, this will affect all of us. But I can do this much for Dean. I owe it to him.”

Lucifer and Gabriel exchange a look; Lucifer nods.

“Okay,” Gabriel says, “Let’s call Raphael.”

-*-

Sam is hunting through the cupboards of the kitchen.

"Does Raphael keep any sort of coffee?" Sam wonders aloud, but Adam is only listening with half an ear.

Bobby’s gone to bed and Adam just found the phone’s gallery in a completely non-intuitive location. He’d begun to think this phone didn’t have one.

He discovers that it’s impressively full.

There are videos with photos numbering into the hundreds. Adam glances at Sam who’s peering under the cupboard of the sink, and he slips one of the ear phones back in.

A still image of the Impala slightly trembles as the video begins to play and Adam can hear the background static of a gentle breeze. A faraway voice carries on the wind, too distant to really make out the words, but it sounds like someone is shouting a rough, familiar melody. Adam squints at the screen, bringing it closer to his face, and he realises that’s Dean swaying on the Impala’s hood with something that looks suspiciously like a beer in his hand.

The Impala is parked against that wooden fence in front of the field from the study photos.

_“Like this?”_

Adam stiffens hearing Michael’s voice and realises he’s the one recording the video. The angle shifts significantly to the side as though Michael’s held the phone out to someone and then Adam hears himself snort a laugh on the video’s audio track.

_“Yeah, keep rolling. Send it to me when you’re done.”_

_“What for?”_

_“Why not?”_ Adam's arm waves in front of the video.

Dean goes still on the car, going abruptly silent as he notices them, and Adam’s burst of laughter startles Michael enough that he forgets he’s supposed to be focusing on Dean and the camera’s angle drops abruptly to their boots. The ground looks muddy beneath the grass and then Adam’s boots leave the shot as he starts laughing even harder like he can barely contain it.

Adam hears it: Dean has started singing again, louder, with even more intensity, and Adam finally recognises the chorus of _More Than a Feeling._

Adam pulls Michael along and the video blinks white for a moment, blinded by the sun. The image shudders while they walk and the phone flips in Michael’s hand. Adam catches a glimpse of himself, grinning at Michael like an idiot, before a new voice joins Dean’s ballad and Adam would recognise the sound of Gabriel from a mile away.

The next video starts with a pair of denim-clad knees seated alongside pressed, black office slacks and there’s the faint click of buttons being pressed.

 _“What’s the purpose of this?”_ Castiel’s gravely inquiry precedes the slow pass of his hand in front of the camera.

 _“I’m still praying for revelation,”_ Michael replies.

Michael turns the phone over in his hands a few times, making Adam dizzy. When the image finally stills, Castiel and Michael are frowning back at him, politely troubled, like of all the ways they could move forward with this, they don’t even know where to start. Castiel finally looks at Michael with the closest expression Adam’s ever seen him to _what the fuck?_ and Michael raises his eyebrows as though to agree _Dude, I have no idea._

Something explodes off screen. They look sharply towards the source, golden light bounces off their faces, but neither of them are moved to concern. Castiel’s frown actually slackens, exasperated.

 _“Gabriel!”_ Sam’s disapproving shout rings out, quickly drowned by Adam and Dean’s whooping cheers. _“Don’t burn down the whole field!”_

Adam feels himself smile watching Castiel straighten and Michael’s mouth curve in a polite smile, but it’s the smile of a dare, both of them under some new scrutiny, and Michael shakes his head.

 _“Don’t look at me,”_ he tells someone off-screen.

Castiel’s eyes narrow at the same person, shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother.

 _“I’m not stupid, Sam,”_ the youngest angel says, bristling defensively.

 _“He’s your brother,”_ Sam’s voice snipes, fading quickly like he’s rushed past.

Michael’s face twists as though he’s just smelled something foul.

_“Gabriel hasn’t listened to me since the first mortals entered Heaven thousands of years ago.”_

_“You’re sleeping with him. Use sex!”_ Castiel twists around, calling after Sam, and Michael frowns.

_“I think you mean he should withhold sex.”_

Castiel blinks back at him.

_“That’s what I said.”_

Sam’s voice interrupts Adam in the here and now, almost making him jump.

“What are you grinning at?”

Adam gestures with the phone, pulling the ear phone out.

“There’s a bunch of home videos on here! Look!”

Sam backtracks with wide eyes and holds his hands up in defence.

“Oh no, that’s – I don’t need to—“

Adam rolls his eyes and nods Sam over with a jerk of his head.

“Not the private kind, Sammy, I mean… just look – ha ha, it’s you!”

He doesn’t notice Sam’s double take or the slow smile that crosses his face because Sam leans close on the counter beside him.

The next video opens with Sam walking past a large bonfire with a cache of beer under his arm while Lucifer offers Castiel to stick his hand in a half-eaten bag of marshmallows. Dean and Gabriel are singing again, somewhere off-screen, and Michael’s quiet laughter can be heard beside the crackle and hiss of the flames.

Sam forgets his hunt for coffee and sits with Adam on the island, watching and laughing through the videos, he fills in the gaps of those moments Michael didn’t catch, and they stay there for hours.

 _“Hey.”_ Adam smiles down at Michael where he’s seated by the fire. He glances from the camera to Michael’s face out of view. _“You look like you’re getting pretty good at that.”_

Michael holds out his hand and Adam’s smile grows wider, though he blinks in surprise when Michael pulls him down to his lap.

 _“Oh. Okay. I’m good with this,”_ Adam seems to decide and takes the phone out of Michael’s hands. The picture shakes as Adam makes himself comfortable and the outline of the Impala glimmers in the dark by the dancing flames. _“You okay?”_

 _“I’m fine,”_ Michael says, amused smile familiar in his voice and Adam can even picture it. He’s learned the way that smile would light Michael’s gold-brown eyes as they searched Adam’s face like he was waiting for Adam to join in on the joke, how he would lean in and press that smile to Adam’s forehead or his hair, but by the muffled sound of Adam’s laugh in the video, he thinks that time the angel homed in on something a lot better.

Somewhere in the background, Gabriel’s got his hands on a guitar, and the only sound is the snap of the fire and Gabriel’s gentle strumming as he sings softly.

_“… They call me on and on across the universe….”_

It’s almost two in the morning when Dean walks through the front door.

-*-

Dean feels like a large knife has just been stuck through the hole already in his chest when he finds his brothers laughing and leaning into each other like they’re high as kites on the floating island of Raphael’s kitchen.

All the mirth drains from their faces when they see him standing there. He feels guilty for killing the mood, but vindictive at the same time. What the hell was so fucking beautiful that they’d forgotten one of their best friends was dust?

“Dean? What – where the hell have you _been_?” Sam asks.

“I tried to call you more than a dozen times, man!” Adam says.

Dean’s mouth pulls in a scowl and he grinds his teeth as Sam and Adam jump off the island, rounding the marble and studying him with mutual concern.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you girls missed me too much. Did I miss the party or are they still serving the canapés? Don’t let me interrupt,” Dean growls. His fingers trace the hilt of the blade up his sleeve and he snaps seeing the look of annoyance that flits between his brothers. “Don’t roll your damn eyes at me! I’m older than both of you and I’ve been doing this longer! I call the shots, _I_ ask the questions, not the other way around – and if I tell you both to shove it, you say _yes, how goddamn far, Sir_?”

“Touché.” Adam’s brow wrinkles and Dean’s obviously going to have to teach this kid to fear him again.

“Dean,” Sam says, low and steady in that old attempt to calm him and Dean cuts a glare at him because his words have rolled right off Sam like water down his feathers, “Are you all right?”

Dean sneers and throws up his hands, heading for the stairs.

“Oh, I’m awesome. My best friend just died, I don’t even get to bury his body, and a familiar demon told me the only way to bring him back was to gank your boyfriend.” He stabs the air viciously and Sam’s eyes go round as though Dean had jabbed him in the chest.

_“What?”_

“I’m not going to kill Lucifer.” Dean snarls in frustration and wrenches his hand from the banister, tossing Sam the sword up his sleeve. Adam yelps, ducking out of the way, but Sam catches it in spite of his own startle.

“Dude! Throwing knives in the kitchen?” Sam shouts, gesturing with the bright silver angel sword.

“It’s one less sword that douche can pull out of his ass. Not gonna lie! I was tempted because the only guy worse than Crowley is the devil he’s marked!”

Sam frowns deeply.

“Dean, don’t call him –“

“Your boyfriend’s the freaking devil, Sam, and your other guy’s got multiple personalities; deal with it!”

Adam glances between them warily.

“I don’t think Gabriel has dissociative—“

“Hey, shut it, Doctor Phil.”

“What are you yelling at _me_ for?”

 _“Dean,”_ Michael interrupts and they all stop, seeing the angel at the top of the stairs. He glowers at Dean with severe disapproval, but Dean barely spares him a glance.

“Sorry, Mike, this is between family, so do me a favour and _get the hell out._ ”

“There’s something I want to show you,” Michael says without missing a beat, “Now.”

Dean throws him a thin smile.

“It can wait.”

“No. It can’t.”

Castiel would have reappeared at Dean’s side, ending the argument with a clean brush of touch to remove Dean from the situation, but Michael isn't Cas. Dean can feel Michael’s glare boring into the side of his skull and it’s only the knowledge the archangel was fully-fledged again that makes Dean hiss under his breath, relenting, after Michael descends a step.

“This better be good,” he growls, butting the angel’s shoulder as he stalks past and up the stairs.

He isn't expecting the three other archangels to be there waiting on the other side of the hallway door. At the far end of the hall, Gabriel is leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window with his arms crossed over his chest. Lucifer is standing vigil in front of the main bedroom door and Raphael is also there with her shoulder against the doorframe and one hand on her hip.

They all stare at Dean with a look in their eyes challenging his right to be there in that dark hallway with them amongst the shadows, but then the threshold of the hallway closes, and Michael’s hand grips his shoulder firmly.

“What’s going on, Mike?” Dean looks into his face suspiciously, feeling a lot like a pig that’s just wandered into a slaughter house and he just left his only sword downstairs.

Michael leads him to the main bedroom door and Dean can see him searching carefully for the right words.

“We’re placing a lot of faith in you, Dean, but you deserve the chance to say goodbye. We’re not as strong as we used to be; you’ll have until morning. Then he goes back.”

Dean stares at Michael in disbelief. He considers the white door and looks to Michael again.

He can’t mean….

“… Cas?” He whispers, fearful that saying his name aloud will crush the possibility of what Michael’s telling him. “Cas is in there?”

Michael’s look turns deadly serious.

“Dean, you have to understand the risk. He’s from five years ago and anything you tell him will have consequences. Choose your words carefully.”

“I don’t agree with him; I’m not doing this for you,” Raphael speaks up, almost flipping her hair over her shoulder and if Dean wasn’t so floored by what was happening he might have made a snide observation about how well she was settling into her vessel. “But if you can possibly avert the deaths of so many brothers, I condone it. Castiel was my brother, too.”

Lucifer and Gabriel don’t appear to have any wise parting words for Dean. Lucifer just gives him a piercing look like he knew what Dean had considered to trade for Castiel’s resurrection (if Crowley even had the juice) and he averts his gaze with a flush of guilt. He could never do that to Sammy. Gabriel’s hand claps him on the arm as he passes and he calls out to the angels when they pull open the hallway door.

“So, dawn? And what’ll you be doing?”

“You could change all our lives tonight, Dean,” Michael says, voice grave, and Gabriel sighs heavily.

“I don’t want to disappear tomorrow, but, you know. Just in case,” Gabriel motions down the staircase, “Try to get it right this time, Dean-o. I’d appreciate it.”

Lucifer smiles at him serenely and it sends a chill down Dean’s spine.

“I know your baby’s license plate number. I have eyes everywhere.”

Dean blanches in spite of the fact Gabriel smacks Lucifer upside the head and he ducks into the bedroom without ceremony.

The bedroom isn’t much brighter than the hallway, but there’s a streetlight almost directly outside the window by the head of the bed. It casts a harsh silhouette over the figure standing there and Dean’s heart clenches in his chest at the familiar line of those hunched shoulders rumpled by the trench coat falling to knee-length, the soft spikes of hair, and when Castiel looks away from the window, Dean has a wretched moment for his pride when he honestly thinks Castiel’s soft, calculating frown is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Castiel tilts his head in query and Dean’s heart almost breaks in relief.

“Dean….”

Castiel’s words muffle in Dean’s shoulder and he goes stiff in shock as Dean crushes him in a bear-fisted hug. Dean wishes that he could press the air from Castiel’s lungs, make him weak and dizzy like a lot of the other people Dean’s held before, but Castiel isn’t just a man and he most importantly isn’t like the others.

Castiel lets Dean hold him tight, but Dean has to pull back after Castiel’s hands remain at his sides, the tension only knots tighter in his shoulders, and Dean accepts that the angel isn’t going to hold him back. He breathes out in a rush and the deep suspicion in Castiel’s face makes his stomach clench.

“Cas,” he gasps, shaking his head, and Castiel’s eyes narrow to slits when Dean’s hand slides along his jaw, “It’s good to see you, man.”

Castiel’s frown shifts from suspicious to considering. He searches Dean’s face carefully and glances him over from his boots to the mess of his hair.

“You were going to say ‘yes’ to Michael. I stopped you,” Castiel’s gaze cuts to the door and Dean’s stomach flips, realising just which night Michael plucked the angel from, “Dean _the archangels_ brought me here and they said you – Dean, are you their prisoner? They’ve stifled my powers, I can’t fly us out of here, but—“

Dean’s hands close firmly around Castiel’s shoulders and he can’t resist kneading the coat and flesh under his fingers, undeterred by the fall of Castiel’s expression to confusion.

“It’s okay, Cas. It’s okay. I – uh. I need to tell you something.”

-*-

After the angels came downstairs, Michael marched right past them to the solitude of the living room.

Raphael had hovered at the head of the stairs, uncertain gaze flitting between the door at her back and the one Michael had shut himself behind, ignorant of Lucifer’s expectant stare for her to follow him down to the kitchen.

It had taken Sam and Adam a few minutes to recover from their shock when Gabriel explained what they had done.

They had until dawn. That was four hours away.

Dread sank like a stone in Adam’s stomach, rippling anxiety, and a slow-build of what threatened to brim into panic, under his skin. The look on Sam’s face made him think his brother was reeling from a similar horror, but anger flared in its wake. He was finally starting to understand his place here and everything could change again?

Adam was going to lose his family _again?_

“Oh God,” Sam groans into his hands.

“So, what do we do now?” Adam squeezes Sam’s shoulder, surprised how steady he sounds because he really felt like he needed to sit down. It’s a lot easier to cope if he’s too busy reassuring someone else to think about it.

Surprisingly, it’s Raphael who steers them.

“I would like to try this pizza the Horseman spoke of,” she says.

Adam doesn’t trust that she understands the words coming out of her mouth.

“Now?” He can’t believe it.

“It’s two in the morning,” Sam says, though Adam was referring more to the fact it was probably the end of the world (their world), and Raphael wanted to go out for pizza. Then again, it was the end of the world, so why the hell not?

Lucifer seems to agree.

“My brother, if it’s pizza you want, you’ll have your fill.” Lucifer snaps his fingers and two small towers of steaming pizza boxes appear on the kitchen island with what looked like a fridge worth of beer stacked beside it.

“I knew I loved you for a reason,” Gabriel says, voice hushed with awe.

Raphael claims an entire box for herself, sniffing critically between hers and the one Adam opens beside it, before the group of them barrell into Michael’s isolation of the living room. Michael turns away from the window with a dark look of offence that wondered why they didn’t understand he had claimed this space for himself, and why Sam was turning all the lights on?

“Don’t say anything. Just eat it,” Gabriel cuts off Michael’s argument and shoves a fresh box against his eldest brother’s chest, “And if we live through this, stop brooding. You’ll get lines.”

Gabriel had summoned a large television and enough furniture into existence for them to sprawl around the spectacle of what Michael had recorded on his phone. Adam had enough piece of mind to risk approaching Michael to verify something important.

“They’re playing everything on your phone. Um. Are they all… safe?”

Michael frowns slowly.

“What do you mean ‘safe’?”

Adam hisses a tight breath of exasperation and manages not to roll his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Safe from stuff of you and me?”

Michael looks at him like he’s an idiot and it’s not the response Adam was hoping for.

“It’s my phone: eighty percent of it was you and I.”

Adam curses that the angel couldn’t get a hint and he resists the urge to smack his own forehead.

“I mean, personal stuff. Of you and me.”

Michael’s frown only deepens and he tilts his head like Adam was speaking to him in tongues.

“Having sex?” Except, apparently Michael did understand.

“Sex?” Lucifer calls out, ears perked up, and Adam wishes for a moment that the ground would open up and swallow him, in spite of the droll look Michael shoots over Adam’s shoulder.

“Of course not,” Michael finally says, meeting his eye with a smooth shrug, and Adam breathes out in relief, “Those were on your phone.”

“You—what?” Adam’s brain short-circuits. Holy shit, where did he leave his phone? He had a phone? Why didn’t anyone tell him this?

“That was a joke.” Michael blinks at him, expression bored again, and Adam stares at him.

Who _was_ this guy?

“That’s funny.”

“It’s safe.”

The doorbell abruptly rings through the apartment, a clear, polite note of inquiry.

When Adam looks over his shoulder, Sam is frowning in question from the end of the longue where he’s sprawled against Lucifer’s side, Gabriel tears a bite from his still steaming slice of pizza and glances between them, but they all look equally confused. Except for Raphael, whose expression seemed forever stuck between bored and pissed off, even while she sat between her brothers, slowly working through the lion’s share of their second dinner.

“Were you expecting someone?” Michael asks.

Raphael is the one who answers the door, dumping her half-empty box on top of Gabriel’s (to his displeasure), and Adam follows out of curiosity. The angel’s poker face doesn’t flinch when she opens the door to Bobby’s exhausted glower under Balthazar’s arm.

“You’re late.” Raphael glares back at Bobby with equal fire, but she lets him pass without incident.

Adam doesn’t get to spare a thought for the way she opens her arms to Balthazar with that same terse expectation. Bobby tugs Adam into a hug just as Balthazar folds himself into Raphael’s embrace with a slow, heavy sense of relief, pressing his mouth to her shoulder.

“You all right?” Bobby asks, arm thumping on Adam’s back, and he’s shaking when he pulls away, eyes suspiciously wet.

Adam forces a smile for him and shrugs a shoulder because Bobby’s the first one that has threatened to cry in front of him and seeing this sweet, gruff guy crumble breaks his heart.

“Yeah, yeah. You? Didn’t think you were coming.”

Bobby just ruffles a hand through his hair, mouth thinning with a tremor, and he slaps Adam’s shoulder for good measure. Adam nods, he doesn’t trust himself to try smiling again. He means to follow Bobby’s slow hobble towards the living room, but he can’t help overhearing Raphael as she pulls Balthazar’s hands away from their drift towards her stomach.

“We’re fine.” She glares, holding his wrists, and Adam stares.

“Are you—?”

Raphael’s scowl whips to him like a backhand across the face. If Adam had the time (and inclination), he would have asked Balthazar how he built up immunity to it.

 _“Am I what?”_ she challenges and, at this point, Adam doesn’t think it would matter what he said.

“Um. Are congratulations in order?”

Balthazar’s weary face brightens, features lifting in surprise.

“Yes!”

“No.” Raphael glares at the angel with his arms still around her, and the way it narrows when Balthazar looks down at her with confusion reads suspiciously like _shut up._

Okay. Maybe Adam shouldn’t have said anything after all. He returns to the living room as swiftly as he can, leaving the angels to their hushed argument and shuts the door behind him.

They’ve been watching home videos for the past hour and Adam spares all of a second for the shaky image of Dean’s bored stare into the camera as Sam hands his brother another beer. Bobby is settling himself down on the couch beside Gabriel. Michael is coincidentally the nearest to the door and already watching him with suspicion when Adam turns to him, stunned, blurting:

“Raphael’s pregnant.”

 _“Cas will drink you under the Impala,”_ Sam laughs from the television, and the angels in the room have all sat up abruptly to attention.

“What?” Lucifer gapes, and Michael echoes him sharply.

_“What?”_

“Wh—oh, you didn’t know?” Gabriel blinks innocently and gestures with the slice in his hand that’s wilting with cheese. “You didn’t feel it when we… with Uriel?”

Adam startles, backing up with his hands raised in defence when Lucifer and Michael rise and stalk towards the door like synchronised soldiers.

“Whoa, wait! What are you going to do?”

“Move aside, Adam,” Lucifer says, unsettlingly calm, he even smiles, but it’s the promise of a predator, and Adam shakes his head.

“Er—no.” In spite of the fact he’s not sure he’s doing the smart thing here, he stands his ground between them and the door.

“He’s an _ant_ ,” Michael says, “She is….”

“Careful,” Gabriel chimes in around a mouthful of pizza and when Adam glances at him, he realises Gabriel isn’t even watching them, instead nudging Sam in the arm and gesturing to the video where Sam is pulling Adam away from a box of fireworks in the open field, faces lit with glee.

“We’re _archangels_ ,” Lucifer says.

“So, where does that leave Sam?” Adam asks, pointing at his brother, who waves off the attention.

“Leave me out of this!” Sam really needed pointers on coming to the table with support even though he clearly wanted as little as possible to do with anything involving Raphael.

“That is different—“ Lucifer frowns, and Adam puts the question to Michael with a hot glare.

“And what about you and me?”

“There is no ‘you and me’,” Michael’s voice grits, his look turning sharp and mocking, “Remember?”

It stings more than it should. Adam’s a beat too late to react after the angels step around him, but he catches Michael’s arm before the angel moves out of reach.

“It’s only a few hours,” Adam appeals and he shrugs, he’s helpless other than this, “Can’t you let them have it? A few hours; that isn’t even a breath for you.”

Michael’s stern expression fractures and he looks at the hand on his arm. Adam pulls back, suddenly aware that there are three other people on the couch watching them and the living room is quiet, even the television fallen mute.

Lucifer is hovering in the doorway when Michael turns to him.

“What do you want to do?” Lucifer asks.

Michael’s jaw tightens and, eventually, he shakes his head.

“Leave them,” he says. “I’m going out.”

Bobby speaks up, startled.

“Mike, the time—“

Michael silences him with a pointed look, softening into a smile at the bitter edge.

“I’ll miss you, Bobby.”

He doesn’t glance back when he walks out. He squeezes Raphael’s shoulder as he brushes past, sparing a warning look for Balthazar before the door shuts behind him, and the apartment rings in stunned silence.

“What about _me_?” Gabriel mutters, petulantly, reaching for his beer bottle.

The television is still on mute. Adam finally tears his gaze from the bloody sigil on that front door and realises that everyone’s eyes are still on him.

“If you plan to go after him, you should do it before he flies,” Lucifer says, voice almost a growl.

His look is scathing and expectant, forcing Adam to swallow past the tightness in his throat, but his voice doesn’t work when he tries to use it, boxed low and afraid.

Heels click deliberate and threatening on the polished wooden floor, and he looks up just in time to see Balthazar pull Raphael back with hands around her wrists, barely an arm’s length away.

“I didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart,” she spits, glaring daggers at Adam, who stumbles back in surprise when she lashes out for him, “You ungrateful, short-lived—“

“Sweetheart. Raphael. _Raphael_ ,” Balthazar keeps winding his arms over hers no matter how many times she continues sliding free, “Love, it’s not our business.”

Raphael looks sorely tempted to elbow him in the ribs. Or worse (probably worse). Adam is grateful Balthazar manages to keep his arms around her and that Raphael lets him.

“My brothers! This makes it my business!”

“I’m sorry,” Adam tells her, before he even thinks about why he’s apologising.

This is apparently the wrong thing to say because Raphael lunges for him with a sound that splinters the windows and his ears ring. Balthazar catches her around the waist like he was just waiting for it, Lucifer steps in the cross fire, receiving the unfortunate end of her boot in his stomach, and Adam almost trips over his own feet in the shock of jumping away.

“Peace, brother,” Lucifer calms, shaking his head sadly.

“I’ll throw you back in your cage,” Raphael snarls, still fighting the arms around her, and that deadly look cuts to Adam over Lucifer’s shoulder, he shrinks back, “Then I’ll tear down your walls!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Gabriel’s voice rises above them and his look is incredulous, he’s already on his feet, when Adam glances to him by the couch. “Put a sock in it! Dean and Cas are upstairs probably changing our pasts and we’re tearing each other to pieces, again? Raphael, we don’t have time for this. You could disappear. You might get your wish - we could _all_ disappear. I’m sick of us fighting! Everyone sit down, shut up, and eat some freaking pizza.”

Sam is sitting by Bobby’s side and squeezes his shoulder, staring at their boots. The line of Bobby’s back is hunched and his face is lined with a weariness Adam can’t even hold a candle to. He just wants to sit by Bobby’s other side and blend into another pillar of support where he can be quiet and fade into this waiting game until the sun rises and it’s out of his hands.

He knows it’s just the nerves talking. That doesn’t make it any easier to think about confronting Michael, even with a countdown over their heads, but it’s Gabriel’s look of expectation that makes the decision for him. The intensity of that piercing, gold stare abruptly jogs his memory, like a footnote magnified from fine print, that Gabriel was once a General, too; a messenger who destroyed nations in storms of fire and brimstone, and he doesn’t even have to make it an order for Adam to bow his head.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” Gabriel says, and hugs him tightly, before he goes.


	10. Chapter 10

"Michael!"

Michael is a street ahead, his hands in his pockets, and he doesn’t slow down. Adam's breath steams in the late hour as he quickens his step to catch-up. He half-expects Michael to break his disguise and fly, but Michael's feet hit the pavement, and he ignores Adam even when he breaks to a walking pace at his shoulder.

"Michael, hold up, I need to talk to you."

"What for? _What_?" Michael stops and turns on him angrily, his hands falling to clench by his sides. " _You_ asked me to leave, so I left.” He thrusts a hand back in the direction they had come. “This doesn’t change anything. Do you want another apology? I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry you are who you are and you got mixed up in all of this. I'm sorry you decided to forgive me and I fell for it. I'm staying away. What else do you want me to say?"

"... Nothing. Just, thank you." Adam is stunned, caught off-guard by Michael’s outburst, and he struggles to remember what he had planned to say. "I don't know if those guys already said this, but, thank you. For Dean. I know what it cost you."

Michael’s gaze narrows and Adam has a feeling the angel doesn’t believe him.

"Thank you for my name.”

"Wait, don't --" Adam catches his arm when Michael starts turning away again, "Don't you want to be with your family? I know they want you there. C'mon."

"To be taunted with footage about the life I used to have? Do you think that's fun for me?"

Adam is not doing the best job of this.

"Okay, okay. Look: we don't have to watch them. We don’t even have to go back there. Where do you want to go?"

“We?” Michael stares at him in surprise, realising that Adam's inviting himself along.

Adam nods encouragingly and braces his hands on his hips, hoping that Michael will let him follow and choose somewhere warmer. This street is a wind tunnel and there’s an icy gale blowing right through the thin layers of his clothes.

"You should go back," Michael says.

"Maybe. I'm sticking with you anyway," Adam shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself with a shiver, and an obvious, if delayed, thought occurs to him, "Unless you don't want me here?"

Michael’s face melts to sad confusion and he makes Adam feel three chapters behind, heart beating in the sudden tightness of his throat.

“Adam, you’re the _only_ thing I want. Don’t you -- ?” He stops when his voice cracks, and Adam bites his tongue watching Michael pull himself back under control. “You should go back.”

“… Mike, we’re out of time,” Adam says, finding himself almost short of breath, and it feels as difficult, vulnerable and plain as any confession. He’s shaking when he clutches his arms tighter around himself, and he doesn’t bother lying that it’s just from the cold with the way his heart drums, slow and heavy, against his ribs. “Can we just go somewhere?”

Adam can already see the answer in Michael’s face before the angel starts shaking his head and pushing him away again, though the effort sounds weak.

“Adam—“

“Please?” He steps in closer, buffeting Michael from the wind. He doesn’t miss the way Michael glances down, studying how tightly Adam is bracing himself against the cold.

The wind howls down the long, empty street, glass windows trembling in their panes. A flicker of motion catches Adam’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He watches a dark plastic bag tumble up the line of parked cars, winding itself around the nose and headlight of a deep red convertible before a fresh gust drives it free and up towards the second floor balconies of the neighbouring apartment block.

It’s the coldest hour before dawn and the moment Michael acquiesces comes like a sigh of unhappy defeat. Adam glances from the steel buttons of Michael’s open jacket to the soft scowl of his mouth, and then Michael’s palm is on his neck and it’s warmer than he remembers. Adam closes his eyes with a small shiver of relief after the initial numbness fades and Michael’s heat seeps into his skin, a thumb sweeping across the lock of his jaw and over his ear.

The wind vanishes like a cry cut short and when Adam opens his eyes he’s standing beside the wooden gate of a large, open field.

Michael’s hand falls away and Adam looks at him in surprise.

“I don’t think you’ve been here before,” Michael says, quietly, still watching him.

The air feels warmer when Adam breathes it in. He can smell pine.

“This is the field,” he says, and Michael nods without him needing to elaborate, “I dreamed about this place.”

Michael looks out towards the wide perimeter of the trees and the pine’s familiar peaks. There are no street lights here. The pale, bright glow of the half-moon overhead reveals the fields have been recently harvested. Michael’s gaze flickers from a taller outcrop of trees at the field’s furthest corner and back to Adam, hesitant.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

Adam tucks his hands in his pockets and winds his jacket tight around his torso. There’s a strange intimacy about walking alone with someone under the cover of night and only the crickets around their feet. Michael barely makes a sound as he moves through the short grass and it’s a natural grace Adam has realised the angels share – unless they wanted everyone to know of their impending arrival.

“That’s where Sam and Dean set up our camp the day the war ended.”

Michael points towards the hills at Adam’s left where the fence of wooden logs ran beside the dirt road and a small cluster of pine.

“This is where you almost lost your arm setting off fireworks with Gabriel.”

Adam feels his mouth quirk in a smile for Michael’s tone of gentle exasperation at the memory as they cross the center of the field.

“Raphael and Castiel paced this entire field for two or maybe three hours between those posts.”

Michael gestures from one side of the field to the other and Adam follows his hand, watches his expression turn pensive and nostalgic.

“They never told me what they spoke of, but… even if the peace was uneasy, it lasted. Balthazar and Gabriel must have brought confection from every country on Earth. Lucifer burned sigils at the corners of this field to ward it from attention. Like our house.”

Adam is surprised at how easily Michael can say that. He watches the shadows of Michael’s hair fall across his face. Michael speaks like he has no particular thoughts or feelings about their house, but Adam doesn’t think that’s true. Michael looks like a man standing on the tracks who can’t do anything but stare ahead and face the lights of the oncoming train. Adam should say something, but he hadn’t planned further ahead than his thanks, and then Michael leads them under the shade of the largest pine at the corner of the field.

Michael presses his fingers to the bark.

“Can you see it?” Michael asks him and Adam laughs quietly.

“Um. No.”

“Feel with your hands.”

Adam’s palms press flat to the trunk, but the rough lines all feel the same when he slides his hands across.

“What am I looking for?”

“Here. You carved it.”

Adam looks to the angel when Michael guides his hands further across the bark. He shows Adam where to press his fingers, but Michael only has eyes for the carving that’s too dark for Adam to see.

“What does it say?” Adam asks, a little nervous to know the answer.

“It says ‘Dean + Cas 4 EVA’.”

Adam stares at Michael’s expression of perfect composure and then bursts out laughing. Michael finally looks at him and Adam’s eyes have adjusted enough to the dark to detect the hint of humour lifting the long, smooth lines of his face.

“Dean made you hustle petrol cash for a month,” Michael says, “And this is the spot where you invited me to stay with you.”

The laughter goes right out of Adam with the rest of his air. Michael leans his shoulder against the tree and his hands rest in the pockets of his jacket, watching Adam expectantly.

Adam wonders what the time is.

“I think I kind of like you,” he says.

It’s not perfect, it’s not even that brave, but it’s worth it for the soft smile that crosses Michael’s features.

“And I love you,” Michael says, smooth and matter-of-fact. Adam watches his face while he says it and he can tell that Michael means it this time, he isn’t confused anymore.

“How do you make it sound so easy?” Adam leans beside him on the trunk, too impressed to let the hammer in his chest silence him, and Michael doesn’t even shrug.

“Practice.”

“And is it easy?”

“No,” Michael admits, a smile still on his lips, “But it’s worth it.”

Adam considers that, weighing his next decision in the span it takes him to exhale, close that final step, and Michael’s eyes slide shut when Adam tugs him forward by his jacket, leaning in to kiss him.

He hasn’t kissed Michael since that awful night with the tequila and Hellfire, but he likes to think that time didn’t count because he was under the influence and it wasn’t worth the hurt in Michael’s face that he’s tried to push out of mind.

Michael kisses him slowly without any of the loss Adam had been dreading, sinking hands in Adam’s hair and around his waist. Adam pulls him closer until he can feel Michael’s delicious fever warmth along his entire body, and he’s missed this.

He'd almost forgotten the sure, familiar way Michael held him. Michael lingers anywhere Adam lets him, but he still kisses like he's unsure if he's allowed to be here and he lets Adam lead, sliding hot and wet everywhere Adam asks him to follow.

“Send me back with Cas,” Adam breathes, when Michael lets him surface for air, lips shining with moisture, and he curls his fingers in the short hair at Michael’s nape, leaning against his forehead, “I’ll look out for him. I’ll make sure we get back here.”

“No,” Michael frowns at the creases on Adam’s shirt and his hand tracks possessively up and down his back, “We don’t have the strength and I’m not losing you again.”

Adam swallows the truth, it warms and aches at the same time, cording tight in his chest.

“You said Uriel’s spell was broken. What happens to us if I don’t go back?”

Michael shakes his head with regret and the tension in Adam’s chest knots painfully.

“I don’t know. But I gave Castiel something that will help.”

What if they stayed on opposite sides? What if the war went on? What if they never learned and all those hunters, angels, and friends still died?

“I would have stayed with you,” Adam says.

This future wasn't so terrible: four walls, a career, and more family with an interest in his life than he knew what to do with. He's losing a whole family of people he's just learning to care about and he feels guilty telling Michael now when they were coming up against the brick wall with no exit. This life isn't terrible at all, it's sort of amazing, and he doesn't want to lose it.

Michael just holds him close and his smile is forgiving.

“I would have been okay with that,” Michael says and presses his mouth to Adam's in a lingering kiss.

Dawn finds them hours later sitting side-by-side under that large pine tree, Adam dozing with his head on Michael’s shoulder.

Michael feels the spell’s tug on his power when Castiel goes back to those five years past. He shifts Adam closer against his side, pushes the hair back from his eyes when he murmurs in his sleep, and watches the day break.

 

   
 **Epilogue**

They’re coming out the doors of a bar, celebrating the survival of their latest hunt, the first time Michael finds them.

Sam and Dean stop halfway down the stairs, alerted and wary of the stranger stalking across the dark gravel parking lot, because anyone who walked with that much intent to a place like this at such an hour of the night had a very specific mission in mind. But they don’t recognise him and they clear the mouth of the short stairs to give him a wide berth.

He’s just another face, unannounced, but Adam feels the wrench from something inside of himself before he even lays eyes on him.

It burns tight, twisting like a fist somewhere between his liver and his lungs. He freezes, stunned, and they realise too late that it’s Adam this guy is headed for.

Adam meets Michael’s glower only three paces away and his mouth goes dry.

He hears a gruff shout of warning _(hey!)_ that sounds like Dean, but Michael doesn’t stop. Boots scuffle on gravel, Sam’s closest and he reaches for Adam out of the corner of his eye, an urgent babble of sound.

Adam doesn’t hear what his brothers say, because the shot rings out like an explosion and Michael goes down like a stone at the foot of the stairs.

Huh. He wasn’t such a bad shot after all.

Dean is shouting for Castiel somewhere by the parked cars. Adam’s boots are loud as he descends the stairs, gun still trained, and Sam comes up beside him with his own piece drawn.

“Adam. Adam, be careful,” Sam is saying, though he towers over both of them with his giant, reassuring shadow.

Michael groans, holding a hand to his wounded shoulder, and Adam just plants a boot on his chest, leaning with his weight, when the archangel tries to sit up.

Castiel appears at Adam’s shoulder with a light rush of wind. He glances from Adam’s face to the weapon he had put in Adam’s hands after Balthazar found him and Castiel scotch-taped the tears in his soul.

At that time, Castiel had pressed fingers to Adam’s temple and shared second-hand memories of another life that left Adam breathless, confused, and occasionally seeing double.

Frankly, those memories explained a lot about the shared looks and personal space between Dean and Castiel, the reason why Dean pushed Castiel behind him at the first sign of danger, though Dean was the more vulnerable to physical damage.

Adam had begged to have some of those images permanently erased. Castiel was strangely resistant to the idea of tampering with his memory at all.

_“These clips hold a remoulded form of Michael’s sword,”_ Castiel said, pushing the gun with several spare rounds of ammunition across the table. No explanation of how it came into his possession. _“The choice is yours, Adam. Peace is still an option, if you’ll help me fight for it.”_

Confusion colours Michael’s eyes and Adam trains his gun at the space between them.

Just in case.

“Hey, babe,” Adam smirks, “You kept me waiting.”

\- THE END - 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book-end cover art by the effervescent brush to my pen, [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/208129.html).


End file.
